


Glitter and Glimmer

by DragonsinGondolin



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Ardavision!AU, M/M, like the actual song contest, slight trigger warning for scars, transwoman Thranduil
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-23
Updated: 2017-07-02
Packaged: 2018-03-31 21:34:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 34,512
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3993643
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DragonsinGondolin/pseuds/DragonsinGondolin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ardavision was the most famous song contest of Middle-Earth, and not only because it was the only one. With its abundance of glitter, ridiculous outfits, and pyrotechnics display, it was an event awaited with great anticipation.<br/>All of the contestants headed to LakeTown this year, after the victory of Girion and his "Missing Black Arrow", and among them is one Bilbo Baggins from the Shire, as well as Thorin Oakenshield and his rock band Sons of KhazadDum.<br/>Tension is boiling, and everybody is ready to slice their opponents' throats ... or so the presenters would like ...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Whiplash

LakeTown was an extremely ugly town. As its name led to believe, the town was entirely built on a lake, which sure gave the impression of something stylish out of some medieval story, but actually resulted in a damp and windy place almost entirely made of wood, except for a few modern buildings they had tried to construct with metal. “Tried” because the air seemed to make those attempts rot right on the spot. It didn’t prevent some stupid entrepreneurs to still want to build those apparently, because decade after painful decade, those metal buildings, incongruous wart in the once dignified wooden facades, kept popping out of nowhere like a can of soda thrown in a forest by some inconsiderate tourist.

It was, simply put, one of the worst places Thorin had always been, and he’d seen most of Arda during his career. He couldn’t fathom why exactly anybody would deem it a good idea to plant a town here, let alone decide that it was worthy of holding a great event that would attract the eyes of all of Arda for a whole evening. Well, technically, nobody had picked the place, and nobody had the choice but to hold the even there.

 

Ardavision was a contest -a musical contest- held every year for the past 60 years, and which saw all the countries of Arda sending a band or singer to compete in an assault of high pitched voices, glittering outfits, and ridiculous scenography. The winning country would welcome the contest the year after, and this was why they had to suffer through a whole week in this awful town now.

A guy called Girion had won the contest last year, with a –Thorin had to admit- superb and powerful song called “Missing Black Arrow”, a song about a man going to war to defend his family, and dying on the battlefield, contemplating with his last breath the future his failure will make his family endure. It was bloody brilliant, the lyrics something melancholic, but also fierce and full of hope. It felt like a hand going though your chest to hold your heart and not let go until the last note was hit, and Thorin had been sitting on Dwalin’s poor excuse of a sofa, breathing heavily and eyes on the opposite wall for a good ten minutes after that. He was ashamed to admit that he had no memory of the song from Rohan which came right after, and he usually liked those. He simply couldn’t take Missing Black Arrow out of his mind and heart, and it was only legit that Girion had won.

Which didn’t mean that he was pleased with the idea of heading to LakeTown.

 

Because, yes, Thorin was going to LakeTown for Ardavision this year. He was no journalist, no. He was, indeed, a contestant. Not just him, to be fair. His whole band had been picked by their country to represent it. Erebor. An ancient country built on a range of mountains, which industry was largely based on mining and energy, but also jewellery and delicate crafting. A rich and noble country, if you asked Thorin – who wasn’t exactly objective.

Luckily, LakeTown wasn’t too far away from Erebor, and Thorin and his band only had to suffer through a three hours train ride to reach it. What a small relief. At least, they could leave it promptly, should anything turn wrong.

The accursed wooden city was approaching too fast for his taste, though, as he watched though the train’s window. He knew that Dwalin was casting him a strange look from across the seat, but he told himself that maybe, if he didn’t acknowledge it, his friend would not comment. He had obviously forgotten the bald man’s legendary stubbornness.

 

“It’s just a few days.”

“A few days are still too many days,” he replied grumpily.

“Come on. It’ll give us more visibility, and you know that.”

“We’re already visible.”

“Yeah. Tell yourself that,” he sighed before finally dropping the matter.

 

Truth was that they were visible. Well, they had a loyal fanbase, people who came to their shows, bought some merch, and supported them through the years. But Dwalin, as much as Thorin didn’t want to admit it, had a point. Ardavision would help them climb the next step, maybe more, by allowing the general audience to see their faces and hear their music. Contestants of Ardavision who were suddenly catapulted in the first places of the charts weren’t unusual, although most would simply go back to their old lives after their one-night glory. But if you played your cards well, their label’s owner had said, they could turn this opportunity into so much more.

Thorin often felt the need to kick the old man’s arse, but he had to admit that Gandalf knew what he was talking about… most of the time. Not that he would say it out loud. He was positive the label owner’s smug smile would give him an ulcer if he did give him the pleasure to acknowledge it.

 

Anyway, here they were. The other members of the band and their manager had jumped on Gandalf’s… bandwagon, and he had had no choices than agreeing too. Yes, he didn’t have a choice, but it didn’t mean that he wasn’t going to complain all the way to LakeTown, and maybe after they arrived, too, and until the end of this. Complaining was something he was fairly good at, and he didn’t like the idea of being trapped into accepting by Gandalf. Therefor, he wouldn’t give the old man the satisfaction of seeing him play nice. There was no way he was playing nice with anybody. The other contestants, the jury, the journalists. They were all a bunch of hypocrite, anyway.

It wasn’t that he disliked Ardavision. He actually found it interesting, a good occasion to watch something incredibly cheesy and flamboyant, or criticise anything and anyone. Or both. Sometimes, there were good surprises, too, unexpected gems in the ocean of fake, entirely too shiny to be true, diamonds. Girion and his winning song, for example. But that was it. Cliché and grandiloquent divas, funny and light mischief makers, tooth rotting ballad singers. Nothing revolutionary, nothing noble and serious. Just a rush of wind that died as soon as it started. There was no shame in it, but he aimed higher than that for himself.

Simply put, he didn’t see himself as a performer. He liked the energy given by the audience during concerts, true enough, and fed his own passion for the art with it, but it wasn’t what he was in for. He was in for the melodies, the lyrics, and that sort of trance that gave you the illusion to be cut from the real world, to be on your own bubble where everything could happen, when you could be anything for only a fleeting moment. Lives were but a necessity, not the goal.

 

It didn’t change much things anyway. He had had to do concessions in his career, in every aspects of his life even. This was just another thing he had to lower himself to do in order to survive. Well, playing the piano at a shoddy bar of Minas Tirith where the owner insisted he wore no shirts on but a golden bowtie was certainly one of the weirdest things he had done in order to earn his pay check, though. He didn’t think that showing up at Ardavision could ever beat that. Or so he hoped.

Exiting the train, sports bag in hand and his band following him in the chilly damp morning, he couldn’t swear he was entirely sure of that.

 

***

 

Bilbo Baggins was perfectly content with being on his own. Not that he was particularly asocial, or that he hated people. As a matter of fact, he loved people. He loved helping them, giving compliments, babysitting his numerous nephews and cousins, and manners was the closest thing to a religious belief he had. But he also liked having some time alone with himself. He loved the serenity and independence his lifestyle gave him. He liked getting up early, taking his breakfast without disturbance or anything assaulting his senses, spending time in his study writing and composing, gardening quietly, or alternatively standing in his dressing, hand feeling the soft or silky patterns of his wardrobe.

He had no need for showing off and, no matter what his cousin’s wife Primula said, you can totally strive in the music field without needing to show your face or entertain people’s curiosity. He wasn’t up to it, and no small amount of people trying to convince him about the values of climbing up the steps to the scene would change that.

Or … would it ?

 

He had been stuck into an impasse for some time. Months, to be more accurate. Every morning after his breakfast, he would sit at his desk, fumble through his papers, trying to find inspiration for new sounds, new lyrics, but nothing came. On the evenings, he would dust his old vinyl’s and listen to the gritty sound to reach the right place, the right feelings, that would allow him to enter his creative mode, but nothing came. Nothing had come for months, and that was absolutely terrifying.

 

“Have you tried talking to people to get your mojo back,” Gandalf had answered, eyes focused on the details of the delicate tea cup in his hands, but far too focused to actually being studying those.

“I am doing it right now with you, am I not ?”

“You are, indeed. But I was thinking about … actually meddling, encountering, discussing ... going outside. Not just sitting on your kitchen with me after I practically wrestled with you so you’d let me in.”

 

Nice way to put it, Bilbo thought but didn’t say, choosing to glare at the music producer instead. Gandalf had been his mother’s friend for a long time, and had signed her years before magazines had suddenly decided to give her a second look. Still, the old man could be extremely annoying when he wanted too, and Bilbo hadn’t been in the mood to let him in to listen to the gentleman’s rambling about “going out”. But Gandalf wasn’t going to just give up like this. Of course, he had to battle his way inside and then act as if he had been welcome, and his advice solicited. Bilbo was left with no other option than sigh and pour him a cup of tea while enduring his talking.

 

“Meddling ? And how exactly do you want me to do that ?” Bilbo asked, a pinch of irony in his voice, “Hobbiton folks aren’t known for their fine taste and expertise in music, I’ll have you know.”

 

It was actually a vast understatement. It was precisely why Bilbo’s mother had picked this particular place to live. She wanted to find a place where she could escape the crowd. Bilbo wouldn’t find anyone with enough patience and skill to help him with his current predicament, and Gandalf knew it. But the man didn’t comment on that, smiling knowingly and nodding, taking another sip of tea to give himself time before he answered. What a drama queen.

 

“It’s been a while since the Shire has had a contestant in the final of Ardavision,” he said instead, eyes on the cup once again, “Wouldn’t it be nice to see one again ?”

“What are you talking about ?” Bilbo blinked, trying to figure out what Gandalf was implying.

 

Surely he wasn’t saying that… no he totally was saying that. The way his steel grey eyes were staring at Bilbo and the half-hidden smile weren’t lying.

 

“I… fail to see how that’s going to help me, Gandalf.”

“Oh, really ?” Gandalf countered, tilting his head slightly, “I think you know exactly how.”

“No, I’m pretty much sure I don’t,” he asserted stubbornly.

 

The old man put the cup back on the table, his face a tad more serious but the faint light of mischief still shining threateningly inside of his eyes. Bilbo’s hairs rose on his forearms, and he was pretty sure this wasn’t the way “old friends” were supposed to make you feel.

 

“The world is not in you papers and instruments, Bilbo. You can’t get too far relying only on those for inspiration. You need something more. You need to see the world, meet new people.”

 

Bilbo was ready to reply with something witty, but nothing came out of his mouth. He just stared at Gandalf for the rest of their conversation, letting the man talk at him without finding anything to say in his own defence. He knew, in a way, that Gandalf was right. Maybe he had spent too much time relying on his own internal world, and too little actually trying to absorb inspiration from the real world. He still didn’t like the idea of going out there, exposing himself to the audience, but he could accept that something was true in what Gandalf had told him. There was a point where you needed to actually step outside in order to find something new to create about. Well, he could still give it a try.

 

Reminding himself of this conversation with Gandalf, as brief as it had been, certainly didn’t help him much when he found himself standing in the chilly winds of LakeTown weeks later. He should have decided on something warmer than his coral summer jacket. But, Yavanna’s holy shovel, it was supposed to be spring. What even was this place ? At least, now, he wasn’t as afraid of the heat of the spotlights. He sighed, trying to wrap his jacket tighter around him, without much success.

This was going to be a really long week.

 

***

 

If Thorin thought that having to endure LakeTown and its weather was the worst that could happen to him, well, he was in for a surprise. And not the nice kind of surprise, like a friend coming over with your favourite brand of chocolate which can be found only in a few shops, no. The bad kind of surprise. The kind of surprise with a bitchy voice, high heels and long flowing platinum hair you had spent an insane amount of time praying you would never encounter ever again. Luck was definitively not a loyal friend of him.

What in the name of Mahal was this Diva doing here ?

Of course, he had a little idea as to why. It wasn’t so hard to figure out. Obviously, she wouldn’t miss such a shiny and glittering opportunity to make an appearance. In retrospect, Thorin was surprised she hadn’t been to Ardavision before. And now, she had to come the exact year Thorin himself was dragged into the madness. Actually, it wasn’t that luck wasn’t his friend. No, he was starting to think that luck was his arch nemesis, or something close. And so far, his arch nemesis had a name.

 

Thranduil Greenwood.

 

It had started long ago. They were both young, and rather foolish. They had big dreams, strong values, and they thought that, if they didn’t stray from the path, there was no way things could go wrong. As if bad things happen only to good people. But they were so young, so naïve. At that time, Thorin’s grandfather owned one of the most famous label record. He had built it all by himself in the fifties, had signed a bunch of the greatest names in Arda’s History of Music. Bands like Balrog or Gundabad Terror were roaming the corridors, all muscled and heavily tattooed arms, breath-taking riffs and big fat drums. Crashing the recording studios, too, sometimes. All of this was chaotic and loud, but highly inspiriting, and it was truly the stuff of legend. The kind of stories fans all around Arda were still talking about with dreamy eyes. It wasn’t all pink and beautiful, and it wasn’t exactly the best milieu to grow up in, but it sure was eventful and fascinating.

Fast-forward to the end of the eighties, when teenage Thorin spied on that zoo of colourful personalities, Dwalin and Dain never too far either, the three of them trying to produce something out of their own instruments in the garage, very white suburb-like, and looking up at those legend they idealized without truly realizing what this was all about. Thror Durin, always looking for new potential, had found this incredibly mesmerizing young talent. In her twenties, all long slim limbs and velvety voice, and a curtain of blond hair she could wrap around herself like a blanket if she wanted to. But completely broke and right in the middle of transitioning. The kind of inspirational story the owner of Arkenstone Records was looking for. And damn, was the lady a fantastic performer, on top of that.

Thorin had been in love. In a friendship point of view, perhaps, but that was exactly what it was. They had spent an insane number of evenings talking about life, projects, and all the likes. The kind of friendship where you’re so sure you’ll always be here for each other, whatever happens.

 

Drogomir Smaug happened. And everything they had believed in had shattered.

 

But it was over now, it had been a long time ago. Or so Thorin had hoped. Of course, Thranduil had to reappear out of nowhere like a goddamn fairy princess, in a halo of golden spotlight and glittering outfit.

 

“And why exactly are you here ?” Thranduil had spat at him, somehow still managing to sound graceful.

“That is none of your business,” Thorin growled back.

“Stepping on my moment again ?”

“You’ve always been so dramatic. But not everything is about you.”

“Funny. That’s not what you used to think, once upon a time.”

“Once upon a time, I was blind enough to think you cared. I’m not going to make that mistake again.”

 

Thranduil’s eyes had a furious light in them, but Thorin was beyond caring. He had been for a long time. He walked pass the woman, ignoring her eyes throwing daggers at him, his chin up as if he didn’t even see her anymore. If they had been more careful, the two of them would have noticed the curious look sent their way by a black haired man passing by. The man had a grim look and a large predatory grin. He was easy to overlook, but could be very dangerous to the contestants. It was, after all, his job to follow them around and find gossips to spice up the competition.

Smiling broadly, he disappeared quickly behind a curtain. The Master would be highly satisfied with what he had found.

 

***

 

“What is the point in calling those Guyliner, anyway ? Like, it’s just eye-liner ultimately.”

 

Dwalin contemplated this philosophical question while putting said product around his eyes, bending over the desk to better see himself in the mirror. He had always been short-sighted, but nobody was allowed to comment on that in front of him.

 

“It’s to make sure the male ego doesn’t get crushed with the implication that they could be using a feminine product,” Dain replied from where he was sitting, not even bothering tearing his eyes away from his biking magazine.

“Fuck male ego,” the bald man huffed.

 

Thorin sighed, pacing the room and trying to ignore his cousin and best friend’s no doubt fascinating conversation. He needed some fresh air. Seeing Thranduil after so many years this morning had been a serious blow. This week in LakeTown was utter shit. And unfortunately, he knew that there was no escape now. Except if they didn’t make it to the finale, which Thorin didn’t want to risk. He loved his country more than the idea of getting the fuck out of this madness. Beside, he didn’t want to disappoint the boys nor Gandalf. They had faith in the band’s ability to win, he would at least try for them. But Mahal, was this contest an utter fuckery.

He managed to reach the concert hall’s rooftop after a few ridiculous minutes of losing himself in the maze of the building’s corridors and rooms. Yes, it was because of the corridors, of course. Tell yourself that, Durin. He put a cigarette between his lips, and fumbled in his pockets to find his lighter. Only, he realized it was in his coat’s pocket … and said coat was still in their dressing room.

 

“Oh, you got to be kidding,” he breathed through his half-closed lips.

“Looking for something ?” a clear voice answered.

 

He turned around, eyes wide like a frozen bunny. Almost literally frozen, thanks to this goddamn weather. But there was no reason to be on guards. There was a just a man standing in front of him, a few feet away, smiling softly and eyes bright. It was one singularly short man, he thought. Well, Thorin was tall -taller than most people anyway- but he was almost certain that it really wasn’t difficult to be taller than this particular man. He was dressed in dark trousers, with a navy and white stripped tee-shirt and a mint jacket. Surprisingly enough, it didn’t look as ridiculous as it sounded. He was also holing out a zippo lighter. Ah, there were going to reach an agreement, then.

 

“Thank you,” he whispered before lighting his cigarette.

“Bilbo Baggins”, the short man chirped.

“Right. Thorin Oakenshield.”

“What, you mean, the lead singer of Sons of KhazadDum ?”

“That would be me, yes.”

“Oh ! I would never had guessed. What, without the makeup and all.”

 

He considered the man, eyebrows high. He hadn’t thought anybody would know him here, and especially not someone like this Baggins guy. He didn’t exactly fit the description of the average fan of Sons of KhazadDum. Well, he guessed one could always be surprised. He had managed to cross the path of Thranduil, after all. His expression softened slightly, leaving the borderline threatening side –his “resting bitchface”, as his sister so nicely called it- to adopt a somewhat more civilized look. This obviously prompted the man to keep the conversation going. Not that he had had trouble doing so when Thorin had had his “do not talk to me, do not even breathe the same air as me, mortal” mask on. Some people were just natural rays of sunshine, it seemed. Baggins obviously was one of them.

 

“So, you’re here to represent Erebor, I guess ?”

“Sure, yes I do. And you ?”

“I’m from the Shire.”

 

Thorin couldn’t help it. He knew he should have, but he just couldn’t. He snickered. Oh dear, the Shire, really. This country of hippies and content grandmas, the country whose only notable event had been that one battle where some bloke knocked of the opponent general’s head off with a bayonet ? And really, this battle had been a one time occurrence. In the Shire, the worst catastrophe was to have one’s prized tomato destroyed by the frost. Thorin wasn’t impressed by anyone coming from the Shire, whether or not they seemed to know about him. Baggins’s cheerful expression crumbled, a frown appearing above his calm tourmaline eyes. Obviously, Thorin’s reaction didn’t please him.

 

“Excuse me. What’s that supposed to mean ?” he asked, his voice suddenly higher.

“Sorry,” Thorin said, actually not sorry in the slightest, “But … the Shire hasn’t sent any serious contestant for the past … what … twelve years.”

 

He laughed frankly this time, ignoring Bilbo’s indignant stare the same way he had done with Thranduil’s.

 

“Are you yet another folk singer with a ballad about world peace or the importance of protecting Yavanna’s Garden ?”

“As a matter of fact, I am not. But I see you’ve already forged an opinion on me and my music, so I don’t see the point in enlightening you.”

 

And with that, he turned back his heels and exited the rooftop, leaving Thorin standing awkwardly behind. Maybe this had been uncalled for, and extremely rude. Not that Thorin thought he ought to apologize. He had only spoken his mind, and if the man wasn’t ready to hear this kind of comment, well, he had come to the wrong place. Ardavision wasn’t meant for fragile natures. Anyway, he thought while throwing his cigarette in the open wind, Baggins wasn’t going to stay for a long time. The first round of selections, in a few days, would take care of this. Not like Thorin would have to care about his offended feelings then, right ?

 

***

 

The nerve of this man, Bilbo fulminated. Who did he think he was, making assumption about his music, insulting his country. Sure, the Shire was mostly known for folk ballads and formations about traditions, and respect, etc. But what was so bad about this ? Care and love was, after all, extremely important in a country that relies exclusively on its harvest. Farms are fragile, they are the target of harsh weather or wars. It was only natural that Shirefolk would want to protect that and avoid confrontation. Because this man was raised in a cave, sheltered from nature’s tantrum, didn’t mean he had the right to deem the Shire’s interests ridiculous. The same could be said about the love of analogies and metaphors about gems and rocks in the lyrics of most contestants from Erebor, after all. Bilbo was just too polite to point it out as offensively as the man had done.

But this wasn’t even the point, to be honest. No, the point was that Bilbo had been perfectly polite, trying to engage him in a nice conversation between two professional, even going as far as letting the man know that he knew him and his music, as a friendly gesture. And the man had to answer by downright insulting him. What even was the point in being well-mannered with this man ? He would have a few words with Gandalf about his “meet new people, be friendly” advice. Be friendly my arse. So far, he had had a blond diva looking down at him through her eyelashes, a pair of young men from Rivendell trying to pull him into their prank, and now this grumpy bear of a man. Honestly, what was he doing here again ?

 

Right, singing. Well, he would end up doing that, and only that, if things kept being this way. He wasn’t particularly fond of being the target of jokes and condescension, thank you very much. He would perform, be polite enough with people, especially the crew of the contest, and that was it. Gandalf could stick his “meeting new people” up his arse, where the rest of his ideas belonged.

 

He stopped abruptly, realizing suddenly that he had no idea where he was. He had meant to go back to his dressing room to avoid meeting any more rude contestants, but it appeared that his feet had carried him somewhere else entirely. He didn’t even think he was still in the dressing rooms part of the building. If the wires and quiet beeps were any indication, he was close to the machinery. Luckily, he could hear voices coming from an office nearby. He could always ask for the right way.

He marched towards the door, “good afternoon” already on the tip of his tongue, but something in the words coming from the room made him stop a few feet away from the door.

 

“You heard Smaug ! We need to find a way to make Bard lose, or else the funding is gone.”

“But how ? It still needs to be subtle enough. We can’t have anybody poking their nose into our business.”

“I think I have a little idea, sir, if you let me do.”

“Hm … ? What is it, Alfrid ?”

“Simple enough. I’ve noticed a certain tension between some of the contestants. It would be a shame if our friend Bard were to be caught in the crossfire, wouldn’t it ?”

 

Bilbo frowned, not entirely sure if what he was hearing was true, or the product of his imagination. He was almost certain that Alfrid Lickspittle was the name of one of the presenters, and he assumed that the man he was talking to was one of the organizer. It could only be that. Now, the tricky part was … what the fuck were they implying ?

He knew that Bard Bowman was the contestant from LakeTown, and had some pressure placed upon him, after the incredible performance Girion had delivered last year, but he didn’t have a clue why those people were planning to make him fail. Who was this Smaug they were talking about, and why were they so interested in seeing Bard lose ? So many questions, but he started to understand that this contest wasn’t so much about cooperation and exchange, whatever Gandalf had told him, and it was well beyond the contestants entertaining rude –but understandable- competition. People working directly on the contest were actively trying to pull at the strings, to direct the victory, by making some of them trip and fall.

Oh dear. What was he going to do ? How deep did this scheme reached ? He couldn’t just tell anybody about this, or else he would risk being targeted too. He wasn’t even sure if Gandalf could help them, at this point. A label owner’s meddling would certainly not be well received. Beside, anybody involved in this would understand that someone had heard of the plan, and told the man. It wouldn’t take long for them to find who exactly, and this was not what he had signed for.

 

As quietly as he could, he turned back on his tracks, wisely deciding that asking for direction wasn’t the best idea, and that he should find his way by himself, after all.

This whole show was a bottomless madness, and he was the king of insane, the emperor of crazy, the prince of stupid, for agreeing into partaking. What in Yavanna’s blessed greenhouse had possessed him to follow Gandalf’s idea ? Anybody in their right mind should see that whatever the old bat had in store was a fool’s errand. Yes, Bilbo wasn’t in his right mind, and he had the feeling he wouldn’t be for a very long time if things didn’t improve quickly. Was it too late already to go back to the Shire and pretend the World didn’t exist beyond its borders ? Yes ? Too bad.

 

***

 

He had spent a whole evening pacing in his hotel room, and an uncomfortable night with troubled dreams in which his cousin Lobelia kept trying to knock him off from a horsy with her umbrella. He had no idea what it was supposed to mean exactly, but it probably had to do with what he had learnt the previous day.

He had come to the conclusion that he wouldn’t tell anybody yet. Not until there was some evidence that Alfrid and the other man were indeed planning to cheat. After all, he had no proof that they would actually act on their words, and if he himself wasn’t fully convinced of that, nobody would believe his words, or so he thought. He would watch Lickspittle closely, and that was it.

Meanwhile, he would have to learn more about this Bard guy. If he could understand exactly what was so special about this man that someone would go this far to make him fail, maybe it would help. Which was why he found himself in the concert hall, facing the scene. He had been told that Bard would be there, rehearsing, but once there, Bilbo didn’t find him. Somebody else had taken over the scene. Somebody he was at the same time excited, annoyed, and not ready to see, if that made any sense.

 

He had dreamt of that, as a young man. Well, younger than he was now. He even had posters in his bedroom, if you can imagine. Oh, the amount of time he had spent looking at those, daydreaming of going to see them live. And here they were, some ten years after he had taken the posters from the walls. Sons of KhazadDum. Be still his heart, he was really seeing them with his own two eyes.

They were looking incredible. Heavily tattooed, all muscles and dark clothes. But his eyes didn’t even registered Dain Ironfoot and Dwalin McFundin, to be perfectly honest. No son, he was entirely too busy staring at Thorin Oakenshield to acknowledge anything else going on on stage. He couldn’t be blamed for that, he believed. Dude was quite the sight.

 

Short beard perfectly trimmed and leather-clad, he was standing in the middle of the stage, playing the guitar as if he was doing something totally different to it. The light was playing on his eyes, such an icy shade of blue they seemed almost impossible, especially with the eyeliner tracing lines spreading around his eyes and down his cheeks. The perfect combination of dangerous and sexy. It almost made him forget about the man’s rude words on the rooftop. Seriously, this guy had no business being so smoking hot. Bilbo was almost sure he had let out a whimper, but he didn’t even have any sanity left to thank Yavanna for the lack of people around him to hear it. Why ?

A shiver ran down his spine as the familiar deep voice started singing. Oh dear, somehow he had managed to forget how rich and profound this voice was. All the time listening to his old cds had not prepared him for hearing it live, echoing on the walls, filling the hall with its melancholic but oh so heart-warming texture.

He couldn’t tell if the lyrics were up to the voice’s high quality, though. It was in a guttural language, deep and cavernous which suited the singer’s tone, but leaved Bilbo totally unable to decipher its meaning. Khuzdul, he realized. His knowledge on it was short, seeing as the people of Erebor were rather jealous of it, guarding it fiercely, and finding a teacher was a quest on itself, but also because he had always been more interested in Quenya or Sindarin. He didn’t remember Sons of KhazadDum singing in their mother language before. Maybe this was a special song for Ardavision, meant to celebrate their country’s culture ? Bilbo didn’t know. Maybe he should start searching for the translation of those lyrics ?

 

Wait a minute. What was he thinking about ? He had better things to be doing with his time. He frowned for a moment, trying to get rid of his embarrassing ideas. He wasn’t twenty anymore, for Manwe’s sake !

Of course, his attempt at keeping his shit together was crushed mercilessly as soon as two piercing aquamarine eyes landed on him. He startled a little, and found he couldn’t tear his eyes away from Thorin’s. The tone of the song seemed to get darker, and Thorin’s voice had dropped even deeper. It wrapped itself around Bilbo like a velvet blanket, the bang of the drums being the only thing that maintained him in the reality of the room, reminding him that his heart was, as a matter of fact, still beating and he hadn’t step into another dimension where time had stopped. The rest of it… it faded around him. Nothing existed, except the drums, and the complex mix of bass and guitar creating a case fit for the jewel that was Thorin’s voice, hard, but also glimmering, attracting Bilbo like a moth around a garden light. Or maybe the actual jewels were his eyes, and the voice was only here to lure him further into their mesmerizing abyss.

He was in so much fucking trouble.

 

Thorin looked displeased, as seemed to be the case most of the time, but also curious. He was perhaps wondering what Bilbo was doing here, and if he was spying on them. Well, he couldn’t be spying, technically, as he wasn’t even trying to hide. And what was there to spy ? It wasn’t as if he could steal their lyrics, seeing as he didn’t even understand them. He frowned again, a common occurrence apparently, and didn’t break eye contact with the singer. He wouldn’t give him the satisfaction to win this. It was already bad enough that he had escaped the rooftop instead of standing his ground, and he wouldn’t be defeated this time. Maybe it was a trick of the light, but he would have swear that, the longer he stared at the singer, the softer his expression turned.

Yep, definitively the lights.

 

***

 

“I’ll call you tomorrow, don’t worry. It’s just a few days and I’ll be with you again. You say hi to Tauriel for me, right ?”

 

Her voice was soft and loving, something that very few people had been allowed to hear through the years. But the boy wasn’t just anybody. He was the whole world to Thranduil, and more than that. She remembered the first time she had held him in her arms. Such a precious thing, so adorable. She still had trouble realizing that she had created this life. How can something so precious come from her ? Her nails dug into the skin of her palm, and she steeled herself away from those thoughts. Legolas was older now, “a young man” he made a point to remind her with a proud light in his clear blue eyes. But he would always be her little boy. She would always see the small baby in a soft green onesie.

 

“I love you my little leaf.”

 

She hung up, and took to brush her long silky hair, looking pensively at herself in the mirror. Her eyes trailed over the scar on her cheek. Not the tiny and easily overlooked kind of scar. It was raw and angry, even after all those years. It was hard to look at it, but not really for aesthetic reason. She had learnt to cover it up with creams, concealers, powders. She knew it could be masked, if she wished so. And Varda knew she did wish it could disappear totally. But every night, when she cleaned the makeup from her face, the pink and ugly mark was still here. But no, aesthetics wasn’t why she still flinched at seeing it crawling up on her neck, chin, and jaw. It was the memory of what had caused it.

Fire leaves marks that can’t be undone. Marks that go deeper than skin.

 

She startled when she heard footsteps behind her back, and the door shutting abruptly. She turned quickly to face the intruder, ready to unleash against whoever it was who dared step foot inside her dressing room. It was a man. Tall, wearing a lumberjack-style shirt, unshaved. Typical. Always ready to act as if they could go wherever they wanted, as if they owned the place, and taking any answer that didn’t fit their expectations as if it were a grave insult. Maybe the man thought that Thranduil’s privacy wasn’t worth much, as a lot of people tended to do. Let’s walk in on the transwoman preparing herself, eh. Her body is everyone’s to discuss and comment on. Okay, maybe she was giving him thoughts he didn’t actually have, but she was really annoyed at people not respecting her space, and she wasn’t going to shut up about it. Thranduil squinted her eyes, arms crossed on her breasts, as the man held his hands up in defence.

 

“Sorry madam. Didn’t want to disturb you. Just …”

 

He stopped talking, turning slightly towards the door, visibly listening to what was happening outside. Thranduil listened too, curious as to what was happening, of course. Footsteps could be heard on the other side of the door, then vanishing as the person walked away. The man sighed, back to the door, then seemed to remember that Thranduil was very much in the room, and very much waiting for an explanation.

 

“Sorry,” he stammered again, “I wanted to escape from … er”

“From ?” Thranduil repeated, foot whipping the air impatiently.

“Alfrid.”

 

This made her foot stop suddenly, and she tilted her head to the side, long hair following the movement.

 

“What about him ?”

“I don’t know,” he replied, eyes widening, “I don’t know what game he and the Master are playing, but he’s been following me around all day, getting on my nerves, cancelling my rehearsal, trying to start shit with the other contestants.”

“Language,” Thranduil said absentmindedly, a reflex that came with having a teenager at home.

“Sorry.”

“Nevermind,” she said, waving her hand in the air.

“No but I am. I shouldn’t have barged in. You were clearly busy, and I am a stranger. I apologize.”

 

Oh, well. That was… that was very thoughtful of him. She blinked a few time, the talk down she had been ready to give him entirely forgotten.

 

“I… apologies accepted.”

 

She had learnt a long time ago not to say things like “it’s ok” as people tended to take that as a proof that they could do it again. The man was playing with the hem of his shirt, and he seemed to be hesitating for a second, before he finally talked.

 

“I’m Bard, by the way.”

“Thranduil”

“Yeah, I know.”

 

It was but a whisper, but Thranduil managed to catch it nevertheless. She hummed quietly, suddenly connecting the man’s gruff accent with his name. Of course, he was the contestant from LakeTown. Made sense that he knew how to find his way around the dressing rooms to avoid Alfrid. There weren’t many concert halls in this town, and he probably had been here before. His brownish eyes met hers, and he let go of his shirt, putting his hands on the pockets of his jeans instead.

 

“Well, I’m not going to bother you any longer. Have a nice day.”

 

He opened the door, but turned back once more, nodding abruptly.

 

“Madam.”

 

And with that, he was out, leaving her alone and stunned by what had just happened. She turned back to the mirror, aiming to continue her previous activities of preparation. It wouldn’t do to let this little interference change all of her plans. Two blue eyes looked at her from the glass, and this is when she noticed. Bard had seen her face without makeup. He had seen her scar. And he hadn’t commented on it. His eyes didn’t trail on it, or stare at it with sick curiosity painted all over his features. He had seen, she was sure of that, but they had still interacted like two normal human being, without any hint of uncomfortable silence or awkwardness. She looked at her reflection, her fingers trailing over the scar, and whispered.

 

“Bard.”


	2. A night at the Opera

It seemed that, despite his attempt at a carefully crafted scheme to make Bard the target of the other contestants’ hatred, Alfrid hadn’t anticipated something important, Bilbo found : Bard was extremely likable.

He wouldn’t go as far as to call him a bright ray of sunshine, as the man had some grim air about him most of the time, but he had this way of making people like him without putting much effort into it, without actually caring if people liked him or not, it seemed. It probably was the way he made everything look ok, as if he literally took nothing personally, shrugging and going back to whatever he had been doing anytime something or someone was trying to get on his nerves. The kids from Rivendell –whom Bilbo had since learnt that they were indeed twins- had tried to prank him a few times, only to be met with raised eyebrows over a pensive honey stare and a little smile each time, a kind of fatherly expression, half amused, half serious, and never irritated. Bilbo wondered if the man did have children, judging by the way every trick was met with this calm response. Even Alfrid and his obvious –or so they were for Bilbo who was paying attention- attempts to annoy him by any mean possible, didn’t make the man angry or even afraid. It was all slipping on him like water on a turtle’s shell.

He was just like this. Even with the blond woman, Thranduil, who had seemed so cold and distant to Bilbo, managing to make her smile, and even advert her eyes to hide her blush. He had to look closely to catch it, for Thranduil appeared to be the queen of concealing, but it was there, definitively. It was so precious that it made his heart melt for a second. Then, Thranduil had looked at him with a fierce expression, and he had quickly turned away, pretending to be doing something else.

 

Yes, Bard just seemed to be your average neighbour, the guy next door with a fondness for woollen shirts and who looked like he didn’t know how to properly shave. What an adorable dork, really, seemed to be the general consensus regarding LakeTown’s local singer. Which probably explained the huge slap-in-the-face like surprise they all experienced when the first semi finale rolled by.

 

The semi finales were supposed to wind out a few of the contestants to prepare for the great finale which would close the contest and crown the performer elected by both the audience and juries from across Arda. Ten contestants were selected in each semi final, and the others were to go back home. The cruel law of contests. This was usually where the path ended for Bilbo’s fellow contestants from the Shire, thought this year, he had no will to just be an extra relegated to the background of the ceremony. He would make it to the finale and show people that the Shirelings weren’t a joke, but were very much able to send someone serious. This had, of course, nothing to do with proving a certain rock singer wrong. Not at all. He was way more mature than that sort of vengeful competition, thank you very much.

Now, Bilbo found himself in the same semi finale than Bard, along with the twins from Rivendell, some ragged dude from Gondor who spent most of his time skyping his girlfriend or cleaning his guitar sitting by himself, and other persons he hadn’t had the time to observe or talk to before. Bilbo knew that the qualities of the songs weren’t always the key to success in Ardavision, and he didn’t want to judge anybody too hard based on their voice range, or their apparent creativity because, truly, you never knew who was going to make it to the finale. And, unlike a certain someone, he wasn’t one to judge people in general. Not before he had gotten to know them and their opinions, anyway.

Which was certainly why he had decided to stay as far as possible from the guy sent by Gundabad, some albino bloke who hadn’t made a mystery about his will to “crush everybody else”, and had taken to spit slurs left and right, especially against Thranduil and Thorin, probably because the two had the most striking personalities, and thus represented a threat to the guy’s attempt to assert stupid dominance. Bilbo had much more important to do than finding himself in a battle for ego. It was bad enough that he had been trapped into caring about Bard’s destiny.

 

Their third day in LakeTown was the fateful day in which Bilbo’s fate in the contest would be decided, and in which Bilbo and Bard would find themselves competing. Two hours before the countdown opening of the show, Bilbo had turned into a huge mess of nervous feelings and was pacing his dressing room, trying to remind himself of all the things he would need to do on stage, every move, every looks at the camera, every wink and breathing. Everything. It was swimming in his head, all of it messed up and tangled. He knew all the confusion would vanish as soon as he would set foot on stage. He was nervous, sure enough, but he was also good at his job, even though performing wasn’t his favourite part of it. He would manage. He was his mother’s son, was he not ?

 

What he wasn’t sure of, on the other hand, was what would happen regarding the Bard issue. He had said nothing about it, done nothing except watching both Alfrid and Bard carefully to see if something would happen to the latter because of the former. It seemed that, so far, Alfrid had done nothing else than being a little shit. To be honest, it looked more like the kind of small inconvenience a frustrated five years old would attempt to do against a classmate : changing the man’s rehearsal hours, trying to pitch someone against him. It was rather pathetic, really, and Bilbo ended up thinking that Alfrid wouldn’t really be a threat, after all.

However, if Alfrid had some help within the organising team, then there was much more damage to be done. Bilbo didn’t want to imagine the mess that would ensue if whoever the man Alfrid had been talking to could make him lose in the semi finale. Here was to hoping that he didn’t possess this kind of power.

Bilbo told himself that it wasn’t his to fix. Why would it matter to him ? But the truth was that he found absolutely awful the idea that someone could be the target of such a horrible scheme, especially considering that Bard was such a good man. It made Bilbo’s blood boil with a rightful anger. He still had no idea what he was supposed to do, though. Well, maybe he could start with performing.

 

All of them were ready by the time the countdown started, the audience in the concert hall counting with Girion and the official presenters, and off went the first contestants to jump on scene. A duet from Rohan, both blond and obviously related, singing some folk ballad about freedom, and the beauty in ridding through the tall grass. Not Bilbo’s favourite kind of songs, but pleasant. Bilbo spied on the show while waiting patiently for his turn, as he would be second to last. He was in a special room where the contestants waited and watched the performances, already in his outfit for his song, and watching with everybody what happened on stage. He couldn’t miss anything of Bard’s performance. Which would have been a shame, as it was indeed a remarkable moment.

They all gaped as the man actually appeared on screen, and a few gasps could be heard as well.

 

This had to be the most glittering outfit Bilbo had ever seen in his life. Extremely dark, all in leather which took the form of actual scales, but at the same time shining like a diamond with all the little sparkles that had been sewn into the costume. His eyes were bordered with black, like wings unfolding on his temples, which made the slight greenish colour in his eyes shine in a dangerous manner.

What had happened to Bard the friendly fisherman ? He had apparently been replaced by Bard the dragon-vampire. Yavanna have mercy on them all.

The song was catchy, and the rhythm a wild ride. Bard’s strong accent had disappeared, making place for an astonishing opera-like voice, a roller coaster of crescendo and high notes. Who would have thought ? Not Bilbo, to be perfectly honest. He would have never guessed that the man would be one to actually sing glam rock, but here he was. It hadn’t been expected by the audience either, apparently, seeing how people in the room around Bilbo were whispering in hushed tones, surprise written all over their features. Which didn’t stop them from cheering and clapping along to the rhythm of the song. The Shireling was in awe. He hadn’t think one could appreciate Bard even more, but this song certainly did the trick. Now was the time when everybody would definitively fall in love with the man. Starting with Thranduil, who was watching the screen from across the room, in blue fuseau trousers and white lace blouse, with an intensity that could probably set fire to a snowman.

 

The applause which followed the song made Bilbo smile. Now, he was absolutely certain that whoever was behind this scheme wouldn’t dare sacking Bard, least they wanted everybody to understand that there was something wrong in here. A quick look at Alfrid’s expression on screen confirmed that. The man looked so pissed off, it was a delight.

 

He looked as a group of young women in cabaret-like costumes climbed the steps to the stage, their black ballerina shoes clapping on the wood and making clicking noises. One stepped on his foot while hurrying past him, and he refrained from making a comment. Not the moment to be too rigid about etiquette. She was certainly stressed enough as it was. He massaged his foot, frowning slightly. Still, he would probably need to explain a few things to her about being more careful where she walked. Bilbo was cool, but not all contestants would react with his calm. He didn’t want more drama to happen. Or… well, he hoped it wasn’t some sort of tactics of hers. Not that it changed much things, as he was above that, but he really didn’t want it to add more tension in this contest.

Anyway, very few things could dampen his mood, now. Bard’s song had fuelled him with energy. And that wasn’t a surprise, as he had noticed that casual Bard already had this talent. He hummed to himself, gazing around to stare at the other contestants, those who were waiting for their entrance, and those who were supposed to appear two days later. Between the show and the observing of other people, he almost didn’t see time pass. Almost, because it was hard to forget when one was about to climb up on stage and perform in front of the whole people of Arda.

 

When the guy coming from Dol Amroth took over the stage to begin his song, Bilbo stood up and started stretching. It would be his turn soon. Time to chase the tension from his body, and from his mind. It was going to be fine, he kept telling himself as a mantra, just don’t lose your footstep. But all this prep-talking wasn’t as useful as what happened right before he climbed up the stairs, though. He had given a last stare at the waiting room before disappearing behind the curtain, just one, and really, his eyes shouldn’t have been attracted so easily by him, of all people, in this crowd of persons.

Thorin Oakenshield, all in casual blue shirt and dark jeans, staring at him intently, and giving him a little nod.

 

He then hopped on the scene, bewilded. What was that about ?

 

***

 

He had decided to give Baggins a chance.

 

Well, more like the other two members of his band had proceeded to explain to him exactly how his laughing at the man a few days ago had been, not only stupid and rude, but also not a good thing for their business. They were here mostly to make themselves known to the general audience, after all –that and having a bit of fun too- and it wouldn’t do to start acting like arrogant pricks to people, especially one who apparently already knew about them, in a favourable manner. Having rumours going on involving them making fun of other people and parading as if they’re too good for everyone else would be a disaster, and they couldn’t afford to have the Shirelings being offended by a comment that had been totally uncalled for.

They had explained this to him at length, Dain trying to be his usual reasonable self, choosing his words carefully to make him understand the importance of playing nice and trying, as much as his reserved nature allowed, to be smooth and charismatic. Dwalin, on the other hand, had not been as patient, and had started calling him an ‘absolute moron with a broom stuck up his arse’ and ranting about how he ‘could turn a cinnamon roll sour by just looking at it’. As if the bald man could talk.

Anyway, he had to admit that there was some truth in their words, and even if he still didn’t believe that speaking his mind to Baggins was that bad –really, he was just saying the truth- well, maybe he had been too quick in making assumptions. He still couldn’t bring himself to feel at fault, but he could at least give it a try.

 

There were, after all, much worse people on this contest. Well, Thranduil, for once, but he was starting to consider that she wasn’t the worst. There was Azog from Gundabad, who was an absolute dickhead. The meanest scum he had ever seen. Well, one would retort that there was a huge past between the two of them, and that he wasn't exactly objective. But anybody could see plainly that the man was the worst... and they did if the looks on most people's faces were any indication. He really wondered what kind of country could send people like this to represent them, to be their face ? He had made a mental note not to set foot on Gundabad at all.

There was also this man from Angmar who walked around wearing a huge black cape –how could he survive under the heat of the spotlights was beyond Thorin’s comprehension- and calling himself “the king”. King of looneys, maybe. That dude was seriously creepy as fuck, and was giving Thorin the chills. Even Dwalin seemed to turn uncertain and oddly silent when the guy was around. And man, he did seem to be lurking in the shadows most of the time, and this blasted cape made it look like he was literally sliding on the floor instead of walking like a proper human. A knife in the shadows, ready to stab at some innocent soul who had been unfortunate enough to cross his path when no one was looking.

 

Although, to be fair to him, Thorin tried as much as possible to stay above this. If making fun of other contestants would be bad for their reputation, then he figured that starting a fight with some, no matter how irritating they were, would be worse. He didn’t want to have Gandalf’s old owl stare directed at him as he usually did, fixing him until he start getting uncomfortable and ashamed. Blasted grandpa. Thorin was too old to feel like a five years old caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

Which brings us back to giving a chance to this contest instead of just making assumptions, and specifically giving one to Bilbo Baggins.

 

Seeing the man sitting in the audience during their rehearsal was entirely unexpected. But he did, in the same kind of unbelievable outfits, a mix of casual neighbour and heavily pattern-clad rich –whiskey at 2pm- uncle. A blazer blue like a tropical sea, with a floral patterned handkerchief pocking from the breast pocket, crimson corduroy trousers. It was … well, absolutely ridiculous and yet rather good looking. It suited him and his personality, at least.

He had sat through it all, eyes focused on Thorin, apparently appreciating the music. Not only the music, Dwalin had snickered, but surely, it wasn’t anything like what his drummer and friend was implying. At first, Thorin was a bit annoyed to find him here, certain that the man was only watching them so he could make fun of him in reply, but Baggins’s expression wasn’t that of mockery or even bitterness. He seemed genuinely interested. And so, Thorin had relaxed, and decided to use this opportunity of an audience to test the effect of the song. It was new, and they weren’t used to sing in khuzdul, so it was interesting to have an idea of the impact it would have. He had, therefor, watched the shireling’s face with great care.

Yes, of course, it was the only reason. What else ?

 

Now, it was Thorin’s turn to look at his performance and, truth be told, he was eager to see it. Part of him wanted to be proven wrong, wanted to see the man doing something incredible. He watched as Baggins climbed up the stairs to the scene and turned back to the room for a moment, their eyes meeting suddenly as if the chaos around them meant nothing, as if they were alone, just as they did during the rehearsal. He gave him a little nod, without really noticing to be honest. It was more like a reflex than a conscious will to support or validate him. Or, was it ? The man disappeared behind the curtain, and Thorin turned to the screen to watch the rest.

He didn’t know what he had expected exactly. Not a ballad, that was for sure, as the man had made sure to tell him after all, but Thorin honestly didn’t expect that either.

It was… pop, and not in the “bad” way, not like some commercial soup ready to be reheated and which ended up turning lukewarm and tasteless after ten minutes. No, this was actually pleasant, with a great rhythm, a good orchestration provided by a few musicians on stage, and a Bilbo Baggins who, he had to admit, turned out to be extremely dynamic. As much as the man had seemed calm and entirely too respectable off-stage, he looked as if he had switched to a trance as soon as the music started. Thorin would have sold his soul for such a fantastic foot coordination. Not being a dance expert himself -he could defend his honour quite well, but that was that- he couldn’t say exactly what kind of dance moves those were, but even he could tell that it required precise technic and a great deal of energy.

As for the song itself, well… it was nice. Ok, more than nice. The singing was good, the words flowing like a river, or perhaps more like a torrent, and the lyrics were pleasant. Something about sizing the day, and not being afraid of stepping out your front door, interesting use of the metaphor of the road, too. It was poetic, said a lot, while being vastly entertaining and still within the canon of his musical genre. Thorin had some trouble keeping a poker face and not starting to move or shake his head to the beat of the song. Some others didn’t have his reservation. He saw Thranduil smiling and nodding, and Dain was dancing excitedly on his chair, arms waving around and almost knocking out the blond woman from Lothlorien who wisely decided to go sit farther. People from the audience were also enthusiast, judging from the movement of the crowd and the excited shouts that could be heard. Fine, it was well deserved.

It was as far from a ballad as it could be, and Thorin felt a tad ashamed for his initial assumptions about the man’s music. Well, only a tad, because he couldn’t exactly be blamed for thinking that Baggins would sing a ballad about nature after around a decade of the Shire sending exactly that year after year. Anyway, now, it appeared that the rural little country did have a great chance to be on the finale. If Thorin had been a judge, he would certainly have kept Baggins in the contest. He was the kind of performer he would have a great time competing against, he thought.

 

He was so lost in the song that he almost missed the commotion behind him. What was that, now, he wondered while turning to see the source of it.

The blond woman from earlier was now standing in the middle of the room, her white dress spotting a large stain of wine on the front. She was looking angrily at the creepy dude from Angmar, who was holding a glass in his hand and looking entirely too pleased for it to be an accident. The other contestants were looking at them, speechless, waiting for a reaction from the lady. But she kept glaring at him with a cold expression, her head high and haughty, in a way, though not on the arrogant side, but rather as a queen looking at an offensive diplomat stepping unannounced on her halls. Thorin had to admit that she looked absolutely regal. What was her name again ? Galadriel, he thought it was. Yes, something like that. He would think twice before getting in her way.

She kept saying nothing, looking at him intently, as if trying to win a telekinesis battle, until he dropped his eyes and turned heels. People in the room let out a collective sigh of relief before returning to whatever conversation they had going before the altercation. As for Galadriel, she left the room with her aristocratic air and long blond hair flowing behind her back, probably to change clothes or try to clean the mess on her dress. She never once departed from her noble and mysterious look, and Thorin stared at her until she exited, and even afterwards, at the door though which she had disappeared. What an interesting lady ! He liked the fire he could see under this ice, or not the fire… rather, the deep and ancient ocean, limitless and unforgiving. This contest was going to be fascinating after all, despite his initial thoughts on the matter.

 

When he turned back to the screen, Baggins had finished his song, and he wasn’t sure how to feel about all of this. Ashamed was definitively too strong a word. No, it wasn’t that he was feeling ashamed for making assumptions, or even stating them, actually. Everybody makes assumptions about others, let’s be honest. However, what you did with those was something else entirely, and you don’t have any right to turn it into a way to degrade someone and their work, and this was exactly what he had done with the shireling. He didn’t need his cousin and his best friend to understand that. He had thought that it was. Healthy competition and open doubting of your opponent’s capacities, but he started seeing it for what it was now : rudeness. This didn’t sit well with him. No, he felt … inappropriate. It was the closest word he could find to qualify his feelings. Well, at least, he had a pretty clear idea of what he was supposed to do.

But it would have to wait until the end of the night, or maybe tomorrow. Right now, the contestants of the first semi finale were all gathered on those large sofas in the green room, waiting with their team for the end of the last performance, and to hear the vote that would allow them, or not, to reach the finale on Saturday. It wasn’t the time to talk with Baggins.

 

He watched instead as the dude from Gondor finished his song –something beautiful and quiet that stirred an old ache in Thorin’s heart, lyrics about fulfilling some destiny and becoming who you were supposed to be instead of running away. Now, all the contestants of the night were sitting in their sofas, and Girion was walking from one to the other, talking with them and commenting on the “amazing night and performance” while Alfrid Lickspittle was on stage to launch and end the voting. While Girion had an impressive and noble stature, luminous brown eyes with a kind but melancholic light I them, something about Alfrid was unsettling. Thorin couldn’t help but think that his little eyes and wide grin were predatory. He shook his head, trying not to read too much into it. Making assumptions about people wasn’t really helping his case these days, were they ?

He counted the seconds in his head with the audience and the other contestants in the room as the voting ended, watched the last speech of Alfrid before a rotund man called Masters, who was apparently the official head judge for the event –not that Thorin had paid any attention to this kind of details before- appeared on stage to announce the results. They all listened attentively to those, and Thorin was no different. He was curious to know who he was to face, and if Baggins would make it to the finale. He had to be honest and say that he would be severely disappointed if it wasn’t the case.

 

He did. The Shire was, for the first time since more than a decade, in the finale of Ardavision. The man from LakeTown was, too, and Thorin could have sworn that the smiles of both Alfrid and Masters faltered when the name was announced… which didn’t make much sense. The audience, on the other hand, cheered loudly, as well as most people in the room around Thorin, and even some of the contestants in the green room stood up to clap. Girion shook the guy’s hand with a huge smile, too. He dutifully noted the names of the other contestants selected in his mind, but he couldn’t bother to care about them much at this precise moment.

He was too busy trying not to smile like a moron at the screen where Baggins’s own face was alight like a Christmas tree.

 

***

 

The quiet bang on the dressing room’s door found him in the middle of his daydreaming and he startled, turning to it with a grunt of disapproval. Seriously, who had decided to disturb him now ?

 

He had spent the rest of the previous night too excited to sleep. He had turned around in bed, tossing and sighing, sleep eluding him for a really long time. He didn’t know how long exactly, but at some point, he realized that this just wouldn’t do, that it was a battle he couldn’t win. So he had dressed up again and ventured out of the hotel to get some fresh air, and perhaps find a pub to provide some distraction. He had found just that, plus a bunch of people who had seen his performance earlier and were more than ready to buy him a few drinks. It had been one of the greatest night he has lived since a great deal of years.

And probably the one he regretted the most come morning, too. But he couldn’t just hide in his hotel room. On such a short and eventful week, time was precious, and not to be wasted. On top of that, he still had a presenter and a certain high judge to keep his eye, or both, on. So he had pulled himself together, put on his favourite pair of sunglasses, and well … show must go on.

Now, the knock on the door made him wish he would have stayed in bed.

 

“Yes, come in,” he hissed at the intruder, massaging his pulsing temples.

 

The door opened to reveal –and really, he should have seen that coming- a slightly ill-at-ease Thorin Oakenshield. What did the man wanted now ? He didn’t really have time to think properly on the little nod from yesterday evening. Performing, than being selected for the finale, had monopolized all of his attention. Now that Thorin was in front of him again, however, the memory of came back to him, joined quickly by the vision of the intense gaze they had shared during the rehearsal. He still had no idea what those were supposed to mean, but perhaps it was a sign that the man didn’t find him as … hm … unworthy as he previously thought. He secretly hoped so, anyway.

 

“Good morning,” Bilbo decided to break the ice when Thorin still didn’t talk.

“Yes. Good morning. Hm…” he started, uneasy.

 

Bilbo didn’t dare say anything. The man obviously had something he wanted to say, but found difficult to do, for some reason. It would be rude to cut him, or try to pressure him into talking faster, and it would probably be counterproductive, too. He just stared at him with what he hoped was an open, friendly, expression, and waited patiently for him to find his wording.

 

“I implied that you wouldn’t be a serious contestant … and presumed things about your song.”

 

Bilbo held his breath. He suddenly felt dread at the idea that his song had displeased, or disappointed the man. Which was ridiculous because, really, he shouldn’t care about what any contestant would think of his song. But, somehow, thinking that this impressive singer, this character of legend if one were to pick grand and poetic words, who he had been listening to as a young man, would disapprove of him and his song left a sour taste in his mouth. He had really hoped that he could prove himself to him. He swallowed, trying to regain some composure. No, he really didn’t need to confirm the other singer’s belief that he was indeed some kind of weak nature, unable to stand his grounds.

 

“Yes, I remember that,” he replied, trying to sound more confident than he actually was.

“I… yes. Well… I have been wrong. Wrong to say it in such a light and mocking manner and wrong because your song was … well, it was great.”

 

Bilbo stared at him for a moment, his brain trying to process what he had just said, running like an old dusty computer.

 

“Oh,” was the only word his mind managed to form at first, before he collected his thoughts with his mental broom and shovel, “No, no, it’s alright, I… I guess I would have doubted myself too, given the Shire’s usual contestants…”

 

He could hear the breath Thorin released, but what pushed Bilbo’s mind further into the spiral of blankness and babbling it was currently in was his smile. His motherfucking smile. It was blinding, like a spotlight directed at one’s face and forcing him to blink. It looked so genuine, so benevolent, that the shireling was left to stare some more –an alarming occurrence when he found himself in the same room as the singer from Erebor, it seemed.

 

“Yes, well…” Thorin started, trying to sound cool but obviously failing, “I think we started out wrong. Hm… maybe if we could… I don’t know… start it all again.”

 

Bilbo smiled back, then, nodding solemnly.

 

“Sure,” he replied, extending his hand to the man, “Bilbo Baggins, from the Shire.”

“Thorin Oakenshield. Erebor.”

“Nice.”

 

They exchanged another smile, and the shireling tilted his head, suddenly pensive.

 

“So, we really are even now that you’ve seen my song too.”

 

The slight blush that crept in Thorin’s face at the hint of the rehearsal was a really cute thing, and Bilbo had the feeling that he was very lucky to be able to witness it. Thorin Oakenshiled didn’t seem like the kind of man to open up easily about how he felt deep inside. He wondered what had happened in the man’s life to make him so secretive, and so ready to hide behind the mask of indifference and sarcasm.

Bilbo had grown up in a word without internet, when you had to rely on magazines to learn about this kind of details. He wasn’t complaining. Unlike some of his acquaintances, he was grateful for the ameliorations technology had created in everyday life. But, the fact was that private life had been easier to protect in those time, except from a certain type of press that Bilbo had never been willing to lower himself to read. He left those to his cousin Lobelia. Part of Bilbo’s mind, which sounded suspiciously like his mother, was tempted to search the internet for some information on Thorin Oakenshield’s life, but another part was hissing against the idea. No, doing so would be a great intrusion inside the man’s life, and now that they knew each other, he knew he wouldn’t be able to do it and still look him in the eyes. Beside, who was he to think that he deserved to know ?

 

“Ah, it seems so,” Thorin answered, and Bilbo had to drag his thoughts back to their conversation, “what did you think of it ?”

 

The honesty in the question, and the eager undertone, surprised Bilbo. Was Thorin truly asking for his opinion, now ? Something had shifted between them apparently, now that they had symbolically started all over again. It felt… easier to interact with Thorin. Maybe it was all they needed, really. More openness and tact.

 

“It was… well it sounded great, though I can’t say I understood the words, obviously,” he answered with the same honesty, “I don’t remember you singing in this language, before ? Is it Khuzdul ?”

“Yes, it is. A very special composition. About my sister, actually.”

“Oh, really ? How interesting !”

“Hm hmm,” Thorin nodded, “it’s called dushin mizim. It means dark jewel.”

“I take it she looks like you ? Physically, I mean.”

“Well, yes, actually. But it’s more a reference to her soul.”

“Ah ? Is she… hm… tortured ?”

“Used to be. But it’s not a sad song. It’s hopeful. She went through a hard time after… I mean, at some point. But she found a way, she… worked hard.”

 

He looked out of breath, and paused for a few seconds. His eyes had been fixed on Bilbo the whole time, as if he were waiting for a sign of disapproval or judgment from him. As if there was anything to be judgmental about, the shireling thought. On the contrary, Thorin’s sister seemed to be a brave and strong woman, who from what he could guess from the rocker’s words, had fought to make her life better. He could feel nothing but respect for her. He knew how it was to fall down the pit, to have to pull yourself back to climb it up again, inch after painful inch.

 

“So, yes… that’s what I wanted the song to be about. Not the dark side of things, not the difficulties… about courage, and strength. The jewel that comes out of the hard rock.”

 

Bilbo hummed in approval. The more information he managed to collect about and from the man, the more fascinating his personality was. There was much more to Thorin Oakenshield than icy eyes and deep rich voice. Not that he had doubted this before, but it was like peeling an onion, layer by layer, and discovering a whole new vegetable, tasteful and delicate, under the dry and aggressive skin.

 

“I imagine Khuzdul felt more appropriate for such a personal theme ?”

“Yes. It felt logical, singing in my mother language to talk about this. This song is… it’s not intended for everybody, as weird as it is considering that it’s probably the song I’ll sing in front of the largest audience, but… I’m not singing it for the world, in fact.”

“I see what you mean. It’s not that weird I think…”

 

Thorin looked at him, frowning.

 

“I mean,” Bilbo explained, “It’s precisely because the audience is so large that it’s easier, I’d say. It becomes kind of… anonymous, because of its insane number. When the audience is smaller, you can actually create a link with it, sometimes with each person. It’s harder to open up to all of them, then. But at this level… they’re faceless.”

 

He wasn’t sure if he had managed to explain correctly what he wanted to say, for Thorin stared at him for a moment, though at least he had stopped frowning. Was he doubting his words, or thought he was going too far in his idea ? He couldn’t say.

 

“Or… that’s just a thought, you know,” he added quickly.

 

Thorin seemed to stir from his own contemplation, and nodded slowly.

 

“Interesting,” he said with a pensive tone, “you’re one of a kind, mister Baggins.”

“Ah ah, well, I don’t know. Am I ?”

 

Thorin was about to answer something, mouth open to reply, but someone knocked at the door, and opened it without waiting for an answer. The head of Dwalin McFundin popped from behind it, staring at Thorin.

 

“Figured you would be here. It’s our turn to rehearse.”

“Oh,” the singer muttered, turning to Bilbo, “Hm… coming to see ?”

“I’m not entirely sure…” the shireling answered before adding quickly upon seeing the disappointed look on the singer’s face, “kind of hungover. It’s manageable right now, but I don’t want to try my luck with the speakers and all.”

 

Thorin nodded with a knowing look and took his leave, following Dwalin out, but not before he had uttered a shy “see you…”, to which Bilbo answered with a smile and a –without any doubt- slight blush. Bilbo was once again alone in the room, half satisfied and half stupefied by what had just happened. Maybe he was reading too much into it but he could help but thinking that it was something new, something that could prove to be really interesting.

 

Maybe Gandalf was right, after all. Maybe he had just needed a little push in the back to make discoveries and new acquaintances. It seemed, anyway, that something positive could result of this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It took me longer than expected to finish this but... life you know. And the heat makes me rather unproductive, I must confess. But here it is !  
> I would like to apologize in advance for the delay it will probably take for me to update the third part (and then the 4th which will probably be the last). There are other fics I need to keep writing o.o  
> And last : there are probably a lot of incoherence with what really happens backstage during the eurovision... I needed to make some choices for plot reason x)


	3. Panic at the Disco

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> /!\ there's a little mention of transphobia n the beginning of this chapter. Nothing graphic, it's very general, but proceed with caution.

Thranduil had always thought that hopping on scene would be the most difficult thing she could possibly do as an artist. Performing live, being subjected to everybody’s stares without an exit door. Back in the days when she was sheltered in Thror Durin’s studio, she saw the stage as the biggest risk, the biggest danger she could potentially put herself into. Especially as a trans-lady. She was happy with who she was, perfectly content and even proud of it. She didn’t shy away from saying exactly who she was, if only it could inspire others. Still… words hurt. Being the focusing point of people’s malevolent stares, being mocked – openly or behind her back - and being called slurs. And the lack of privacy, on top of that. Her body being the object of speculations, of debates, by complete strangers. Oh, how she hated that. Some days, it felt like her body and image weren’t truly hers, as if she belonged to everybody that laid their eyes on her. Of course she was led to believe that the stage, where she could feel the stares and hear the words, would be the most risky situation for her.

She had soon discovered that it wasn’t. Not necessarily, anyway. She could ignore the angry voices in a crowd, she found, filter the noise to get only the good side of it and drown the negative with all the positive energy. She had learnt to turn a deaf ear to it. It still hurt, of course it did, but she could always pretend that they were no more than a hateful irrelevant bunch, or that they weren’t there in the first place, depending on how strong and powerful she felt that day. Beside, people who came to see her perform were mostly people who appreciated her and her work, so it was relatively simple to ignore the rare few who wanted to start shit. She could manage the stage rather well, yes.

 

It was meeting with people face to face that could turn into the worst scenario. There, where she was directly in front of them without the barrier of distance, or of the rest of an audience to swallow them, there was truly no escape. She had walked out of a harmful situation a few times, with all the dignity and coldness she could gather – and that was a huge lot, actually – but still, she had taken the hatred and disgust full force, and it was worse than anything, especially coming from people who had seemed ready to do business with her, sign her on their label, only to turn hateful when faced with who she was.

And, of course, it hurt even more when it came from people she had been interested in, or even loved. Obviously. Which was why she tended to leave people out of her life. Her son, and this best friend of his, were the rare exceptions. The rest of the world she tried not to care about. She didn’t need them, did she ?

 

Bard was proving to be a problem, then. He seemed to be such a genuinely good person. And what a performer ! But on the other hand, she was afraid, like a doe frightened by the smallest noise, worried that the sound of footsteps in the deep woods might be that of a hunter, and not wanting to take the risk, even if it could be a perfectly innocent walker. She had become afraid of walkers, anyway, and even of those who were supposed to be animals-protectors. Until they turned back heals or proved to be serving their own purpose instead. She had been deceived by friends in the past, after all, even though her heart was whispering that she was being unfair to Thorin Oakenshield, who had lost as much as her, and even more. But it didn’t heal the wound as much as it should, knowing that.

She was wondering if she could let Bard in, if it was safe enough. Part of her was still afraid, yes, but another - which was growing bigger and bigger with each time she observed him - was starting to think that maybe – just maybe – she could try to let him approach, and see what would happen. Well, that was if Bard was interested too, which she wasn’t sure of. Bard was friendly with almost everybody, and she couldn’t tell exactly if his behaviour was different around her, and if it was maybe attraction, or maybe just his natural openness. As much as she could usually tell when people were interested in her or not, she found herself clueless with Bard.

 

Currently sitting in the audience, and watching the singer from the Grey Havens checking his instruments and starting the balance, she was reflecting on the week so far. She would never have though that this event would be so… eventful.

Who had decided to send Thorin Oakenshield there, for example ? She suspected the blasted old man who had signed him on his label. Gandalf was exactly the kind of meddling old beetle who could do that. Why, she had no idea, but there sure as hell was a reason, she would have bet on it if she had been one for betting. She had initially thought that it had something to do with her, but it was the shock of seeing him there, and she wasn’t so sure about that now. Well, she shrugged, it was none of her damn business. As annoying as it was to see her former friend here, she was perfectly able to ignore him. No, he wasn’t her biggest concern for the moment, funnily enough considering all the memories – good or dark – it could potentially bring back into her mind.

 

No, it still led up to Bard, whatever way she was looking at it. She sighed, sipping coffee from a plastic cup and observing the stage, trying to focus on her own rehearsal later that day and abandon her pinning and wandering thoughts. Except fate had apparently decided otherwise, as the object of her longing chose that precise moment to enter the auditorium. She managed to summon just enough grace not to choke on the beverage, but she was almost certain that her face had given away her surprise. She watched, stunned, as Bard waved at her and climbed the steps to where she was sitting, and tried hard not to stare at his hips as he did so. Damn, she was in big trouble.

 

“Hey,” the Laketowner uttered awkwardly, flopping on the sit next to her and giving her his usual somewhat grim smile.

“Hey,” she said back. It was a sad day for eloquence, wasn’t it ? She tried to overcome the awkwardness, desperate to find a way to start a proper conversation. “Nice show, yesterday. It was… your song was… interesting. Your outfit too.”

“Ah, yeah… well, I guess people weren’t expecting this, am I right ?”

“We sure weren’t, indeed.”

“Then my plan was a success,” he joked before adding, frowning, “I hope it doesn’t sound arrogant.”

“No, no don’t worry. I doesn’t,” she smiled reassuringly.

“Ok, fine.”

 

Oh, dear Varda, this was so bad. They were just so bad at this, both of them, all stiff posture and embarrassed words mouthed shyly.

 

“It’s your turn tomorrow evening…” the man said with a little - totally failing at looking innocent – smile on his face, “going to give us some surprise ?”

“I don’t think so, no,” she replied with a pensive look, “you’ll have to wait and see for yourself, but it’s nothing as surprising as you performance I believe. I don’t think anybody can deliver something as surprising as yours, though.”

 

He laughed, a surprisingly quiet laugh, in contradiction with the bark she would have expected from the friendly-lumberjack-minus-the-huge-beard kind of man that Bard looked like. But, once again, who could still pretend to know who the man actually was after last night’s show. Nobody would have bet a dime on the opera glittering vampire, and yet. She tried not to smile fondly at the sight of that puppy of a man laughing so sweetly.

 

“Thank you,” he managed finally, “I’m glad it worked. Well, it won’t have the same effect on Saturday, so I hope the rest will be good enough, but at least I passed that step.”

 

He seemed to stop for a moment, and Thranduil wanted to say something reassuring, along the lines of ‘I’m sure it will still be great’, but before she could actually open her mouth to make a sound, he added, sombre.

 

“I wasn’t sure I would make it this far, actually.”

“Why ? What do you mean ?”

“Oh, just some… issues with a producer. I though he would try to bar me from the contest. Maybe he’s less influential than what I originally thought.”

 

Her eyes found the cup of coffee again, and she preferred to remain silent as she found nothing particularly interesting to say. Well, there probably were a lot of interesting things to say. The size of a book. But she felt they were rather useless in this circumstance, or not coming from her anyway. He probably didn’t expect her to say a word. So she chose not to utter any.

She knew how this wold worked, she had met her fair share of bad producers and impresario too, and she was aware of the length some of them would go to get what they wanted, whether it was making you sign with them or break your carrier into pieces. She remembered the cunning and less than savoury ways of Drogomir Smaug when he took Arkenstone Records from Thror Durin’s hands all too well. She knew the kind of person Bard was talking about. She didn’t know they were literally talking about the same person, though.

 

“Miss Greenwood ? Is everything ok ?”

 

She turned to face Bard again, gazing into his hazel eyes.

 

“Oh yes, of course,” she replied with an apologetic smile, “I was just considering what you said. Producers can be such bastards sometimes.”

“Hm-hm,” came an answer, managing to sound approving but still concerned, “had some unfortunate encounters with some, I take it ?”

“Hell yes,” she whispered, without offering further explanation.

 

The Laketowner didn’t insist, probably not too keen on having a conversation about this sort of grim topic, turning to the stage where the guy from the Grey Havens was still rehearsing and getting familiar with the scene. They sat there for a while longer, not talking, which Thranduil was grateful for. She wasn’t a very social person, despite her taste for scenic arts and singing, and she believed in the idea that one should be able to sit next to a person without needing to do small talks.

It was when she suddenly felt Bard tense next to her that she stepped out of her thought. She turned to him, but he was looking at one of the entrance doors, the one left of the scene and leading to the dressing rooms. A man was standing there, and it only took her a couple of seconds to remember who he was. The head judge, Masters. He was looking back at Bard, apparently not very pleased for some reason, but disappeared through the door as soon as he realized that Thranduil was staring at him.

She turned to Bard, wanting to ask what that was about, but his frown discouraged her. She had no idea what the deal was with Masters, but something was telling her that it wasn’t exactly friendship and slumber parties between them. The man had seem rather unpleasant to her the first time she had seen him on screen at the first semi finale. She had scolded herself for judging him without knowing, while not being completely able to shake the idea that there was something wrong with him. And at that moment in the auditorium, this impression came back, and even increased. He looked… hollow. Despite his fine manners and round figure, he lacked in the empathetic department, lacked the basic humanity and kindness. He was like a nut, but with just the shell and nothing inside.

 

Now the big questions were what exactly was happening here and did it have a link with that producer Bard had mentioned. More importantly… did she want to risk being caught in the crossfire if there was one ?

 

\--

 

“Porky ?” Bilbo laughed, not believing his ears, “What kind of name is that for a motorbike ? Wait… who even gives a name to a motorbike ?”

“Dain does,” Dwalin huffed, earning a playful punch to the arm from his friend.

“I’ll have you know that she is a most trustworthy and loyal friend of mine… unlike you ruffians.”

“Hey, leave me out of this,” Thorin grunted from where he was checking his guitar, “though… Bilbo’s right… who even names a bike ?”

“Oh, that’s very rich coming from a sentimental sod like you, Oakenshield ! I’m your cousin, I have blackmail material, in case you have forgotten,” he looked up in false disdain when Thorin snorted in amusement, “Oh, yeah, hide behind your moodiness, old man, but know that you’re fooling nobody. We all can see your dark romantic side.”

 

Thorin stuck his tongue at Dain, which was extremely amusing coming from such a massive and usually grumpy looking man. Bilbo was laughing so hard, half bent in half on his chairs, that he had trouble breathing. After his headache had been kind enough to evacuate the premises, he had exited his retreat just in time to see the Sons of Khazad-Dum leave the stage in the capable hands of Galdor from the Grey Havens –capable, because Bilbo had always had a certain fondness for this musician, and if one had a ear for Lindonian Music, then Galdor was probably the best to turn to. Thorin had repeated his invitation, this time to join them for a coffee, and Bilbo had been more than willing to accept. He was quite excited to spend some time with the band he had daydream about meeting all those years ago, and they all seemed very nice, especially now that Thorin had shown a better side of him.

They were sitting in a coffee shop just two streets away from the concert hall, sharing jokes and anecdotes. Thorin still had his guitar with him, pretexting that he had to check something about it, although Bilbo could see nothing wrong with it. Dwalin had mouthed that Thorin was really protective of this guitar, which he had apparently called Orcrist and was one of the rare survivors of the Gondolin Instrument Factory that had burnt to the ground decades ago. Bilbo understood instantly how valuable the instrument was, and he didn’t question this quirk of Thorin’s further. Although, to be honest, it made the man’s comment about Dain naming his bike all the most ironic.

 

Something had changed between them – Thorin and him that is, there was never anything with the rest of the band – he hadn’t been wrong in this assumption, that very morning. He wasn’t sure exactly of what had made the singer come to him to apologize and ask to start all over again. He certainly didn’t need to try and make amends to someone as insignificant as Bilbo was. But, whatever the reason, he was grateful he did. He didn’t think he would have had it in him to try so, all in all, he preferred if it came from Thorin.

He wasn’t very good at this… asking for second chances - or for first chances to begin with – and new beginnings. He wasn’t used to it. He could turn into a rather social person, in a way. Not the ‘huge party animal’ kind of person, no, but he knew how to be pleasant, do small talk and keep a conversation going. The perks of big families. He could charm his way into a group of people, be tolerated in almost all milieu. Asking for more personal interaction and contact, on the other hand, was something he didn’t know how to do. Why would anybody bother with trying to get personal with him ? And that was the problem, really. He understood vague social conventions and its necessity quite well, but he didn’t feel he had much to give people past that. Which was why he preferred writing songs instead, in hopes that people would hear who he was beyond the words without having to say those directly in front of them.

He was more than ready to give second chances and grant wishes for new beginnings, though. As far as he was concerned, the fact that someone had reflected on what they had done wrong, and came to make amend was enough reason to grant it. Perhaps he was incredibly naïve, but so far it had never backfired. Of course, it supposed that the person was indeed well meaning. Bilbo was quite a good judge of characters, he could tell when someone was being sincere. Thorin Oakenshield was. It was worth a try.

 

Sitting with the band in this coffee shop, he was glad he did try.

 

Dain had decided to educate him on motorbikes, and Bilbo couldn’t find it in him to disappoint the man. He was therefor listening as the friendly ginger explained to him everything there is to know about those engines in general, and his personal collection in particular. But Bilbo’s focus wasn’t really fixed on him, to be honest. The Shireling was directing short glances at the singer, the dark haired man still carefully handling his instrument. He was smiling too. The proximity of the other band members seemed to have a soothing effect on him, confirming to Bilbo his assumption that the man really was a friendlier person than what his first reaction to people could lead to believe.

He was a mystery. One that Bilbo found himself turning around like some insect caught by the light of some lamp and wanting to come closer and closer. The probabilities to end up burnt on the cold ground were rather low, though. Or were they ? He couldn’t know before he tried, he supposed. But he was hopeful.

 

A commotion behind Bilbo’s back shook them from their blissful chatting, a mix of loud laugher, heavy footsteps, a chair being dragged onto the floor, and then that sort of tense silence that occurs when something’s about to happen. Bilbo turned on his chair, trying to get an eyeful of the situation.

It was that contestant from Angmar, he realised, some tall and slender man, still draped in his long black cloak despite the warm temperature provided by the coffee shop’s heating system. Bilbo pondered why for a moment, before he realised that it had more to do with looks and aesthetics than with practicality. He would have huffed a laugh in the face of such a ridiculous notion, but something about the man was off – broken he would have ventured to say – and it seemed at that precise moment a very bad idea to do anything that could have tipped the man the wrong side of sanity, so to speak.

He was standing in front of a table currently occupied by three people that Bilbo didn’t recognise at first, focused on the flock of crow-like men standing in falsely casual position, but arms crossed on their chests and tense posture betraying them. It took Bilbo a few seconds, yes, but he saw who was sitting there when one of the men moved an inch to his left, revealing the regal face of Galadriel. The golden voice from the Lothlorien Wood was looking every inch the nobility she was, beautiful princess-like hair flowing in fair locks around her equally fair face, the lines of her profile graceful with that sort of cold ethereal beauty that had always run in her family. Bilbo couldn’t help but gaping, his mind just barely registering the two men sitting with her, without any doubt her husband and their bodyguard, judging by the casual arm of the former around her shoulders and the tense ready-to-jump-at-any-moment position of the latter.

 

The man had said something, apparently, something rather bad judging by the shocked looks of the three persons at the table, and the cocky expressions of those standing. But what he did say exactly, Bilbo had no idea. It had been swallowed by the sounds of the other persons in the room and of their own conversation.

 

“Shouldn’t we… like… help ?” Dain uttered, already half standing. But Thorin grunted in reply, shaking his head.

“I believe they’re all perfectly able to defend themselves. Beside… trust the woman, cousin.”

 

Bilbo’s eyebrows jumped high at the mention of Galadriel, instead of the bodyguard as should have been the case. But Thorin’s tone suggested that he knew what he was talking about. And indeed. They all watched as the blond woman stood up extremely slowly, in a way that seemed rather threatening and made a couple of the man’s friends take a step back. The “king” himself – seriously, what kind of person is arrogant enough to call themselves a king, Bilbo contemplated – didn’t bulge an inch. It was all very far-west in the scenery, what with the two of them looking at each other dead in the eye, all stiff postures, as if they were about to take out their colts, and nothing moving around in the silence of the room. Bilbo almost expected to hear the rush of the wind and see a tumbleweed crossing his line of vision. But maybe he had watched ways too many films.

 

“Who do you think you are ?” the woman said, calmly but firmly, a sort of disdain in her undertone, “boasting around, as if you owned the place.”

“Maybe I don’t myself… but I know people who do,” the slender guy replied, not looking any bit nervous, smirking even.

 

What was going on exactly, what were the stakes, Bilbo couldn’t tell. He wasn’t entirely sure of what – or who – they were talking about, although he could think of a few possibilities. Galadriel was looking at the man still, head held high, blinking slowly as an annoyed cat would do at the face of a particularly unpleasant individual. When she spoke, her voice was icy and slightly deeper than usual, which gave Bilbo goose skin.

 

“Perhaps your… acquaintances, or friends, whoever they are, have some power in the industry. I don’t doubt that your kind know how to cheat to get what they don’t deserve,” she paused, tilting her head to the side, probably for dramatic purpose “however, pressure has its limits, and you’ll find soon enough that you are nameless and faceless here.”

 

The man’s friends seemed a bit taken aback by her words. Bilbo suspected that they were the kind of bullies who paraded around, talking big and thinking themselves more important than they actually were, but who cowered as soon as people showed that they weren’t intimidated. They all seemed rather uncertain, faced with Galadriel’s stoicism, and the “king” himself didn’t look so sure of his own power under her severe staring. He took a look around, finding only glaring and cold expressions directed at him, and it didn’t take him long to understand that he would find no support here, nobody to clap at his showing off. It was time for a retreat, obviously, which he did promptly, followed by his crow-friends. The door’s bell marked his defeat, its quiet sound seeming ironically subdued compared to his attempt at boasting, but perhaps too much acknowledgment for his pathetic person, after all.

Some people in the room, including Bilbo and the band, cheered loudly, and Galadriel bowed her head slightly, a little smile of contentment on her face, before sitting back on her chair and turning to her husband with satisfaction. The husband was looking at her with approving awe, and Bilbo found it very sweet and adorable.

 

“That… was quite something,” He breathed, wide-eyed and turning back to look at the rest of the band.

 

Dwalin and Thorin nodded in almost perfect unison, the former looking as astonished as Bilbo was, while Dain sighed.

 

“People are strange,” the ginger-haired man mouthed almost for himself only, gazing at the table he was scratching absentmindedly with his nail, “they seem to go looking for complication where there’s no need to find any.”

 

And, with that, Bilbo could do nothing else but fully agree.

 

\--

 

Thorin was absolutely nervous. He was pacing their band’s dressing room like an oversized wolf locked up in a cage and looking for an escape. There was none, he knew that. Now, here they were, only a couple of hours before their performance, and it wasn’t the time to be a chicken and retreat. Not that he had ever been a chicken. He enjoyed a good challenge when he saw one, and life had been more than generous on the trials and hardship department. He wasn’t afraid, not exactly. It had more to do with the sudden realisation that all eyes across Arda would be on them. Some sort of vertigo. But he wasn’t ready to give up, no sir.

The day had been electric so far, as was to be expected from a day such as this one. Thorin was almost relieved to see that he wasn’t the most nervous of the contestants. Almost, because it was only a meagre consolation, and because it meant that the concert hall had turned into a real battlefield. It was officially the Cold War between Galadriel and the dude from Angmar with his bat-like followers. And by that, Thorin meant that people could almost feel the air turn to ice every time the two of them were in the same room. But, in a way, this wasn’t the worst.

 

There was also the matter of Azog, from Gundabad. Someone else Thorin had been more than happy to ignore all those years. Yes, they knew each other, unfortunately. He was one of the artists – this was too great a word for this man, but anyway – who had left his grandfather’s label just when Smaug had taken it from their family, ensuring that they were isolated and desperate… and thus absolutely helpless against the man. Actually, Thorin had always suspected that Azog had been on Smaug’s side all along, and that everything had been calculated carefully with his insider help. But this, of course, was totally impossible to prove. How conveniant.

He remembered a particular night in a pub, some nine years ago, when a certain confrontation occurred between them and Azog’s band. They had been playing in that town – maybe it was Bree, he didn’t remember. There was Balin, Dwalin’s brother, and Frerin was around too. He should have been in school, and Thorin had been very cross, because the road wasn’t a place he wanted his little brother to be. But Dwalin had thought it would be funny to go together, the five of them, and so be it. They had encountered Azog the second night of their stay, after a show that had been tiring. Some issue with the place they had played in, but this isn’t the point. The point is, they were exhausted, and not in the mood for anymore complication. And Azog appearing out of nowhere and acting like the total jerk he was had been too much for them. He would always remember the glorious punch Dain had landed in that dickhead’s face. Truly a thing of beauty, and Thorin knew a few things about punches.

Obviously, seeing the man here, parading around and getting on everybody’s nerves wasn’t exactly the best that could happen. If Thorin had been of the paranoid sort, he would have probably started thinking that Thranduil and Azog showing up here was some sort of wicked coalition to drive him mad. Luckily, he wasn’t prone to this sort of reactions.

 

Though, on second thoughts, maybe this had a lot to do with why Thorin was nervous. Not that he would ever acknowledge that out loud.

 

Some time later, after the make up has been applied and their costumes put on, the band had joined Bilbo in the waiting room and Thorin had to abandon his cave as well. He would have been more than happy to stay in and sulk, but as Dwalin had nicely put it ‘ya can’t spend all your life hiding under your boulder’.

At least, sitting in the waiting room meant getting to observe other people, contestants of the evening as well as the winners of the first semi finale casually hanging around. There was always that. For someone like Thorin who loved to observe, studying all of them was oddly relaxing. He could forget himself for a handful of minutes, emptying his mind from all the troubles, and letting it wander elsewhere.

 

His eyes were drawn to Thranduil, hard to miss in her long flowing dress, glittering and positively shining. Sequins, his mind supplied. Sequins of the most exquisite shade of forest green he had ever witnessed in his life. It made him smile a bit, remembering all too well her unconditional love for earthy colours, variations of autumn and spring, the trio of reds, browns, and greens strongly predominant in her scenic outfits. She used to have this horrid cape, a vibrant red, almost orange, she insisted in draping around her as she walked down the corridor of Thror’s studio. His smile faltered, the memory of everything that had happened since then coming back to him. All of this was a long time ago, yes.

He shook those thoughts away, shifting his attention to Bard sitting next to her. Very next to her, he realised, amusement making his eyebrow arch. What a lovely pairing they made, the two of them, her in her splendid outfit and matching make up, sitting straight and apparently lost in thought, and him, in his usual ‘friendly fisherman’ clothes, equally lost but gazing at her as if trying to figure out something – about her or about himself, who could tell. What an oblivious idiot, Thorin snickered internally, forgetting that it’s always easier to read someone else’s feelings that your own. It wasn’t really difficult to see what was going on between them. He didn’t need to know Bard to recognize the characteristic features of the love-sick puppy, what with the expectant yet confused looks, the nervous twitching of the hands as if wondering if he should give in to his will to take her hand. Damn, how old was the man ? He looked like a teenager with his first crush, it was almost painful to watch. However, he guessed one had to know Thranduil personally to decipher her tense attitude and eyes resolutely fixed in front of her as it was : indecision, and an attempt to avoid acknowledging his attitude so that, maybe, she could pretend nothing was going on. Still that fear to commit, then. He had always known her to have it, though he also knew why.

 

He turned his head to the side when someone poked at his arm. Dwalin was pointing at the tv screen where Galadriel was investing the scene. Oh, right. It would be their turn soon. He allowed himself a few seconds to breath in and out, the first notes of the golden voice helping him relax a bit more, and he stood up to follow his band for their pre-performance motivation talk.

 

“Thorin !”

 

He stopped and turned to Bilbo, who was trotting to him with a frown on his face.

 

“Are you alright ?” the man mouthed when he reached him, seeming concerned.

“Yes. I mean… it’s not my first live, you know.”

“Yes, of course, of course. I just wanted…”

 

His voice trailed, and he looked inside Thorin’s eyes, as if searching for something, his nose doing this thing he usually did, a sort of twitching that Thorin found absolutely funny but looked strangely adorable suddenly.

 

“I…” he tried again, but waved his hand then, “you know what, it’s nothing. Forget about it. Just… good luck.”

 

Something in Thorin’s chest constricted almost like an ache, but also made something warm spread around. He didn’t know what it was. Perhaps the idea that there was someone here who wanted him to pass tonight’s test, a friend in this sea of potential enemies and unfamiliar figures. He smiled at him, nodding his thank you because no words came, and Bilbo smiled back, even though it was hesitant. They parted ways, Bilbo going to sit in one of the chairs, and Thorin finally joining Dain and Dwalin. But the warmth in his body didn’t leave him, even lasting through they’re entire performance and afterward. It was only later that evening, after the show, after the announcements of the finalists, and well into the following party, that he understood what the warmth was. Mahal have mercy.

Who was the oblivious idiot now ?

 

\--

 

Dain put the pints in front of them on the table, laughing with glee as he did, half exhausted from the show and half delirious from the joy. Bilbo smiled at his expression. Out of the three members of the band, Dain was the most expressive one, and the Shireling suspected that he was unable to hide his emotions to save his life. Not that Bilbo himself could talk, but he didn’t find this to be a weakness. Actually, he liked seeing people’s emotions, watching them light up with joy especially, their eyes bright and smile big, their little jumps or the spring in their steps. He liked Dain and his expressivity very much.

It hit him suddenly just how much he enjoyed the band’s company, all of them three. They were friendly and warm. Even Dwalin and his bear’s grunts and frowns was actually a big softie. Bilbo had seen his eyes glimmering with tears of happiness he was trying to conceal, and the way he devoured cookies. He could look terrible and threatening to people who didn’t know him, sure, but he was also a good person. And Thorin Oakenshield… Well, Thorin was something else.

 

It was rather embarrassing, especially considering that he had been more than ready to be cross with the man a few days ago. Was it only a few days, really ? It felt like ages, but not in the bad, boring, way. No, it felt as if he had known the band for longer than that. He had, technically, in the fan sense of the world – which actually meant that he hadn’t really known them, to be honest – but it was deeper than that. In the course of those few days, and the two days they had really hung around, he had been led to know and appreciate them a lot. And, as for Thorin, this feelings seemed to have grown deep roots inside his chest, and it was now blossoming in something else entirely, something different than the fond friendship he was starting to cultivate for the other two.

He wasn’t sure of what he had wanted to tell Thorin, right before his performance. He had had the idea that there was something he ought to tell him, something the man needed to know, but whatever he had planned to say had vanished from his mind when Thorin’s striking blue eyes had landed on him. He couldn’t even tell if he had had actual words ready to be said past the urgency of saying something. What this something had been was a blur. He had settled for words of support, for a lack of something more meaningful.

And now… well now they were sitting in a pub, the same pub Bilbo had been to celebrate his own victory only two days ago. Well, there weren’t many pubs and cafés in his town, to tell the truth, and most of the contestants, winners or losers, of the evening, were in the room as well tonight. For example, Thranduil was there too, and Bilbo tried to hide his smug smile when he saw her enter, followed closely by Bard. He hated to sound so content with himself, but he had known it. They were drinking their third round of beer, and the Shireling was wondering if he would be luckier this time regarding a potential headache. But this thought was only in the background of his mind, because there was a more pressing matter for now.

 

Thorin’s eyes had barely left him ever since the winners of the semi finale had been announced and the band had been allowed to leave the show and take off their make up and outfits to then join Bilbo for a late night celebration. They were leaving burning marks in Bilbo’s skin, and the alcohol was certainly not helping the feeling that had settled in Bilbo’s stomach and lungs, which twisted his guts and made his breathing short. At least, the beers gave him an excuse for the red that had crept up his cheeks, and for the giddiness and feeling of free fall.

For all the staring Thorin was doing, he didn’t look like he wanted to talk. He was just sitting there, arms crossed on his chest. It was almost frightening for a moment. Was he back to when he misjudged Bilbo ? No, even then he had been quite talkative, even though it had been rather insulting. This was different. He seemed to have slipped into defence mode. Defence from what ? Maybe he had sensed something in their encounter before the performance, maybe he was wondering what Bilbo had wanted to say… Or maybe he was just tired, a reasonable part of the singer’s brain told him. Maybe he was just exhausted from the show and just didn’t feel like talking. He didn’t fully believe that this was the explanation, but this would have to do until further investigation, he sighed internally. He was himself too tired – and perhaps too tipsy – to dig into it now.

 

Dain and Dwalin were lost in a deep conversation about something Bilbo couldn’t bring his brain to focus on. Probably bikes, but he wouldn’t have sworn it was. Beside, Thorin, as silent and gloomy as he was, still constituted a far more interesting subject of attention. He had the faint idea that maybe staring at each other like this for long minutes was probably immensely awkward, but there was something oddly relaxing in not having to keep a conversation going. Bilbo, used to live alone and surrounded more by music than by talking, didn’t mind staying silent at all. At some point in their staring, though, Thorin seemed to grow fed up with the silence. He sat up straighter suddenly, putting his elbows on the table to move closer to it. His eyes hadn’t left Bilbo. He seemed to be about to say something, but the pub’s door opened behind him, rather loudly and abruptly, and made them both turn toward the source of the noise.

 

The newcomer was tall, impossibly tall. Taller than Thorin, or even Thranduil, Bilbo thought. But it wasn’t his predominant feature. In a long and narrow face, all bones and angles it seemed, lied two stunning eyes, with an almost oriental shape and the colour of charcoal, but not a cold and dead fire, but still lighted with some sort of orange and veins of gold. Could someone eyes really look orange ? Is it humanly possible to have those eyes ? Bilbo didn’t know if it was a trick of the room’s lighting, or if the man’s eyes truly had this colour in them. Those eyes were formidable, both incredibly beautiful in their shape and mesmerizing in their colour, but also slightly terrifying, though Bilbo couldn’t pinpoint exactly why.

It was hard to tear his eyes away from them, and perhaps Bilbo had spent a long time staring, but when he came back to reality, he realised the silence around him. It felt like the silence which had surrounded Galadriel and the “king” the previous day, but about ten times colder and tenser. Everybody seemed to have frozen, some looking at each other, some staring at the newcomer. On the other side of the room, Thranduil had clutched her glass and it seemed close to shattering with the intensity of her grip. Next to her, Bard was positively white as a sheet. What the hell was happening ?

His stomach seemed to be shrieking on itself, something akin to fear entering his mind quietly and slowly. He turned to Thorin, hoping to ask the man what all of this was about, but the question died on his lips first. He had never seen Thorin like this. He looked furious, his grip, like Thranduil’s, tightening around his glass, his strong jaw and the line of his shoulders tensing. But there was also something like terror which seemed to creep on his face. Now Bilbo’s heart was beating even faster and his breath caught in his throat. But he needed to ask, needed to know, what was happening.

 

“Thorin,” Bilbo tried to call the man, going as far as to pull at his tee-shirt, “What is it ? Who is that ?”

 

The man’s voice was hoarse and slightly trembling with rage when he answered him, never tearing his eyes from the tall man.

 

“Smaug!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well... as expected, it took me a while to complete this chapter. I had all the ideas of what was happening, but I wanted to write them coherently (well, as much as possible) and so it took some time. But here it is !  
> I apologize for the delay, and also because I have the feeling that it will be the same for the 4th and last chapter x) Especially because I have a lot to read to prepare for college the next two months so... yeah.


	4. Safe and Sound

Life has a strange way to come back to bite you, it seems. You could go on for years and years, learning to forget about a difficult past, learning to savour your existence and the many opportunities it has in store for you, learning to pick yourself up and moving… and one day, without any sort of warning, it all comes crashing down onto you, putting its feet on the table and pillaging your fridge. Well… metaphorically or not.

Drogomir Smaug was like a very persistent case of depression, he thought bitterly, and he would probably have berated himself for using such a pessimistic comparison if it hadn’t been so desperately accurate. It lets you live on for some time, minding you own business, up until the point where it reminds you of its existence, and that all this time it had been waiting, latent and patient, in a corner of your brain, worming its way. And… ok, that was probably enough metaphor for now.

 

Thorin had spent most of the morning in the band’s dressing room and a profound state of fatalism. Seeing Smaug appearing virtually out of nowhere after all this time… well… he really hadn’t seen it coming. It had been so long and he had hoped that, somehow, Smaug would have just disappeared into a cloud of smoke never to come back again. It had been a hopeless wish of course. He knew he was still in the business, and still destroying people’s life probably. But after all this time, and everything he had to go through because of the man, he couldn’t exactly be blamed for his foolish dreams.

And now, that all shattered into pieces in a matter of seconds, the very seconds it took Smaug to enter the pub and look around him as if he owned the place, and make Thorin feel that he had been punched in the stomach.

 

He still wanted to vomit.

 

He hadn’t sleep that night. The absence of snoring had told him that it was the case for Dwalin and Dain as well, but none of them wanted to talk to the others about this, apparently. Or maybe just talk to him. He had seen his cousin and his friend discussing something over breakfast this very morning, and from their frowning faces and the way they had stopped when they had spotted him, it wasn’t hard to guess the topic. He wasn’t annoyed by that, though. Actually, he was grateful. He didn’t want to discuss it. He had always been better left alone on this kind of occasions, and he knew they knew it. He was glad they respected his wish for silence. The wave of affection it made him feel for them was probably what prevented him from going mad and throwing himself in the blasted lake of this damn town.

How was it that it all seemed to hit him more than the others ? All this business with Smaug, all those years ago and now, but also Azog, and… pretty much every issue in general. It wasn’t that he didn’t fight back. In fact, he was really good at fighting back. Perhaps too good. Perhaps he was fighting off feelings as well as actual flesh and blood nemesis. But when they did enter his mind, soaking his body to the bones and dampening his spirits, oh how they did affect him. The others seemed to be able to compartment, take a step back, and move on… but he simply wasn’t.

 

Bilbo had appeared behind the door a few times now, always waiting for a few seconds – or perhaps minutes even, he couldn’t tell. In fact he could hear his footsteps in the corridor right now, very different from the stomping of Dwalin or Dain’s very confident stride, so light and quick on the grey carpet covering the floors. He heard him stop, wait, assess, and he would have sworn that he could hear his breathing. He could have guessed his thoughts, too. The worry, the incertitude – do I knock and enter, do I talk to him, or do I leave him be and sort it out by himself. Bilbo was a good person. It irked him at that precise moment to hear him behind the door, because his wish to be left alone was too strong and hard to battle, and made him see any intrusion as a personal offence, but a tiny part of him, deep inside, recognised the generosity and made his heart ache and yearn for the Shireling’s presence.

This part of him wanted to stand up from the armchair, march to the door, and tell him to enter, wanted the human warmth and comfort, wanted soothing words and small acts of kindness. But a greater part knew it would be of no use, knew he wasn’t in any state to welcome it. He didn’t want Bilbo to lose his time on him, not now. Later ? Well, this remained to be seen. This was a battle he needed to fight alone.

Alone, it seemed, had always been his protection.

 

-

 

Thranduil worried, and Varda knew she didn’t like to acknowledge that, especially when the worrying was about someone else than herself or her son, as was presently the case. Of course she had to start worrying about Bard now. Not that it totally surprised her if she had to be honest. She had given up any pretence of being neutral to the man some times ago, she just hadn’t told herself that officially until recently. Until the day before, as a matter of fact. Until the precise moment when Smaug had entered the bar and she had seen the mix of anger and fright contorting the LakeTowner’s features. And it had felt like her heart was breaking a bit. Wasn’t it funny how her first instinct was not to think about her own grief and fear at seeing Smaug, but to instinctively feel Bard tense next to her and search his face to acknowledge his turmoil. Well, contrary to popular belief, she wasn’t entirely cold and stony inside, and she was perfectly able to care about other people, thank you very much. She just elected to shut down those feelings and lock them up safely in some deep places of her mind most of the time, mostly to protect herself, and partly because they were inconvenient for someone who had chosen her career path. She had been in love before – romantically or else it didn’t matter – had been hurt and had hurt. She still wasn’t sure whether to take another big jump into the dangerous world of feelings or not.

Unfortunately, she found on the second semi finale’s night that she couldn’t lock those away when it came to Bard. Now, the real question was, did she really mind feeling so involved ? This was much trickier than she would have thought, and she didn’t think she could answer it with the same certainty she would have had some times ago.

 

Clutching the two coffees in her perfectly manicured hands, trying not to blink too much because of the blinding lights of the halls, she marched up to Bard. She was trying not to look too eager and satisfied to see him, but she felt that she was totally failing at this. She was failing at a lot of things regarding self control and Bard in general. Those two concepts were apparently not even made to appear in the same sentence as far as she was concerned. The LakeTown’s home singer, on his part, wasn’t even trying to pretend that he wasn’t ecstatic to see her. It lifted her spirit a bit. At least the feelings weren’t unrequited, bless Illuvatar. Which didn’t mean that she was totally comfortable with them, but still. Nothing more awful than pinning and sorting out feelings when there’s no way they would be received anyway. It’s like trying to clean the sand on a beach – it’s tricky and, to be fair, of no use.

 

“Hi ! Thanks,” he welcomed her, taking the coffee she was handing him.

“Good morning. How do you feel ?”

 

She was eyeing him carefully, hoping she didn’t look too obvious in her worrying. Not that he seemed to mind. He just shrugged and offered his gloomy half smile.

 

“Not entirely comfortable, not gonna lie. And you… ?”

“Like my world is crashing around me. But I’ve had worse.”

 

And yet, everything seems so easy with you, she wanted to tell him, you shrug off difficulties as if they mean nothing. You fall back on your feet, like a cat. And somehow, it seems to be rubbing off on me. I don’t even know how you manage that.

She understood it wasn’t as easy as this, of course, but she was amazed by how he managed to stay collected, even now. Smaug could very well crush him under his boot. Crush them all, all things considered. Not a thought she wanted to dwell on, but it wasn’t as if they had a choice, if the man was to haunt the end of the contest like some sort of threatening shadow hovering in the sky.

 

Oh, but she was in for a delicious surprise.

 

Some clashing and clamour of voices down the nearby corridor interrupted her thoughts. They both turned towards the source of the noise and Thranduil was ready to give a serious talk-down to whoever was producing the commotion – and interrupting her desperate pinning. Properly scandalous – but she stopped as soon as the silhouettes emerged from the door.

None other than Masters and his moody shadow Alfrid appeared, flanked with what looked very much like policemen. Now, that was certainly a sight, Thranduil thought, her mouth hanging open just a bit and trying to ear what was said, not quite catching everything amidst the chaos of voices and footsteps. The pretentious accent of the judge was hard to miss, though.

 

“You don’t know who I am !” Masters was all but spitting, “I know people !”

 

What those people were, she knew too well, and she could not prevent a chill from running down her spine, even in those circumstances. Not that the judge’s threats seemed to impress the policemen though, who simply shrugged at him and arched their eyebrows a bit, leading the two men across the Hall and past the small crowd of people which was starting to form because of the noise.

She looked at them all, the people pouring from every door, crowding the hallway or the balcony of the great staircase. Up there, her eyes caught sight of Thorin Oakenshield with his band and the contestant from the Shire, the latter as surprised as the rest of them and sending short worried glances at Thorin. Of course he would, she involuntarily smiled. The Ereborian singer was pale, his eyes following Masters and Lipsickle with an intensity which was almost giving her a headache as she studied his expression for a moment. She didn’t need to imagine what he was thinking. It was probably akin to her own feelings. Here are two men who could have had a bad influence on the contest, and who probably were in some business with Smaug. The man wouldn’t have come if he hadn’t been sure he had someone inside, someone in a high position, to do his deeds, let’s be honest. Maybe things were not so bad, after all. Maybe there was a chance of not being crushed. All of this was upturned in a matter of minutes, somehow eased by some providential help.

 

Thranduil closed her eyes for a fleeting moment, letting the feeling of satisfaction fill her. When she opened them, it was to the vision of Bard’s face. He was smiling, and there was a sort of victorious light dancing over his features, and his eyes were sparkling with satisfaction. It was strange, but she decided not to care about that for now. It was time for celebration.

 

-

 

‘What the actual hell is going on these days’ was what Bilbo Baggins was asking himself. Why were things happening so much around him. And Gandalf had claimed it would just be a nice way to socialize in harmless and even enjoyable circumstances. My arse, the Shireling thought bitterly. Did the producer know what was happening ? Had he known that something was bound to happen ? Would he intervene and help them ? Who knew… certainly not Bilbo.

 

He was sitting in the concert hall’s lounge with the sons of Khazad Dum – or rather two third of the group – trying to find an answer in the depth of his coffee. Dwalin and Dain were commenting on the latest event of the morning next to him, in what they thought were hushed voices but that everybody in the room could probably hear. So much for discretion, if they even knew what this word meant.

 

“It doesn’t change the fact that Smaug is still lurking around,” Dwalin stated, “and this can’t mean anything good.”

“I know that well enough. But we can’t ignore that those two were probably connected with him at some level, and he is now deprived of influential allies within the contest, which is something.”

“I don’t know. I’m almost certain he’s got other people to do his bindings.”

“Let’s hope that those are not as high in the hierarchy as Masters.”

 

Dwalin nodded gloomily, his eyes darting to Thorin standing next to the bar and waiting for his drink. Bilbo understood what they were thinking. They could not be entirely satisfied. Sure, it was already good that Master and Lipsickle were out of the picture, and a selfish part of him was glad that it solved his own moral dilemma regarding whether or not he should talk to someone about what he had heard. Someone had been a better person than him it seemed. But that did not solve everything, of course.

On top of that, and although he obviously couldn’t pretend to know Thorin as well as the two other men did, he didn’t think that Thorin was the kind of man to be fully satisfied with anything, and more prone to see the half empty side of the glass. But in that instance, Bilbo had to admit that the singer would be right to worry still. Smaug was indeed still in the picture, and there was this Azog guy the three of them obviously didn’t appreciate. There were still many ways all of this could go wrong, many ways for disaster and disappointment to happen. It was far from over, and Bilbo was terrified of how such an outcome could impact Thorin.

 

He stopped in his coffee sipping and stared at the nearby wall. Why did it matter so much to him ? Why did all of this mattered to him ? Bard, Thorin, everyone… This wasn’t about him and he was but a little man in this contest, and yet, somehow, he wanted to do something. He wanted to help. Something deep inside of him was revolted that some people could have that much power to break others and their careers for money or whatever. This was just not fair. Everyone deserves their chance and artists should be judged on their talent, not because of petty revenge. That was what he believed in. He had never realized it as clearly as at that precise moment, in that lounge, trying to figure out the tangle of the contests, but he did believe in it on a molecular level.

Bard was someone good, truly, and absolutely nice and harmless. It felt right to want to help him, in a way. That was just the way it was. The same couldn’t exactly be said about Thorin. Not that he wasn’t a good person. But he was less approachable, less easy to love perhaps. Bilbo just had to remember how rude he had been on their first meeting – was it only a few days before, it felt like ages. And yet, once you got to know him, the man was much different than what you expected. He was a mine, Bilbo thought. He looked dark and grim, unpleasant even, but if you cared to dig a bit further, a true treasure lied inside.

 

Interrupting his reverie, Thorin flopped onto the chair next to him, almost slamming his glass against the table. Bilbo turned his face to him, eyeing him with a sort of worry expression. He could see from the corner of his eye Dain and Dwalin doing the same. Thorin’s face was stern, almost blank if not for the slightly furrowed brow and a certain tightness of his jaw. It could have been his usual resting bitch face, though, but something was off, understandably given the circumstances. He was evidently lost in his thoughts, and Bilbo would have given a fair bunch of money to be able to read into them. But he had to admit that the man was unreadable in general.

 

“Hey,” he felt confident enough to say after a minute or two of silent observation.

 

This got Thorin’s attention, but he turned his face only slowly towards Bilbo as if he was still thinking, and the Shireling could see his state of daydreaming lingering in the depth of his eyes somehow. But Thorin managed to get the corners of his mouth twitching a bit, half grim looking and half turning into an uneasy smile, and Bilbo thought of another type of his smiles, more open and brilliant and blinding. Where did this other smile go ?

Ok Baggins, you need to stay focused and not be silly. He smiled back at Thorin, trying to put on his best ‘relaxed and friendly’ face and to sound casual.

 

“So… how do you feel ?”

 

Thorin gave a short glance towards Dwalin and Dain, who were currently pretending not to listen, Dain stirring his tea and Dwalin staring blankly at the chandelier. They were tense, and the Shireling knew they were anticipating Thorin’s answer. He couldn’t blame them. It was a sensitive subject, obviously, but he believed the abscess had to be dealt with. If it took the innocent question of a candid singer to do so, well he was ready to take on the role. But damn, Bilbo thought once again, those men really are bad at this. Luckily, Thorin didn’t seem to mind much their not-so-discreet spying. He seemed to ponder the question with gravity, on the other hand, jaw still tense, but somehow relaxing gradually as he processed his own thoughts.

 

“Weird, I think,” he answered at last, turning his eyes back on Bilbo, “I am still not sure what the hell is happening.”

“That makes two of us,” the other singer commented in a sigh.

“One instant he appears, the following two men get arrested,” he followed as if he hadn’t hear, “And I don’t even know if it’s a good or a bad thing.”

 

He stopped, contemplating something for a few seconds, then shook his head.

 

“No, of course I know it’s not a bad thing, alright. But does that make things ok ? This I don’t know.”

 

The other two men had given up any pretence of not listening. They were looking at Thorin now, Dwalin even nodding quietly at his words. Silence fell on their table, the sound of the lounge around them seeming muffled, as if they were in their own little world. Maybe they were. A world where Smaug was a threat lurking in the shadows.

Dain let out a sigh to break the heavy silence, shifting on his chair slightly.

 

“I think we should go on as we were supposed to. Whatever plan Smaug has, he was obviously trying to frighten us by appearing now. I say we show him that we’re not afraid, that we’ll fight no matter what. In the best case, he’ll let us be after losing his minions and we can have fun. In the worst it’ll get a bit tricky and maybe we won’t win… and so what. We didn’t even come here to win in the first place.”

 

He gave a pointed look in Thorin’s direction and Bilbo followed his gaze. The singer crossed his arms on his chest, humming in agreement.

 

“Yes, I guess you’re right. It’s just that seeing him after all this time… it’s surreal. I can’t help feeling somewhat threatened.”

“I feel you buddy, but ultimately there’s nothing more we possess that he can take.”

“Except our sanity,” Dwalin interjected under his breath, eyebrows furrowed and looking at Thorin with uneasiness.

 

If there was a story behind this, Bilbo didn’t know it, and he didn’t know if it was safe to ask, so he preferred to stare inside his cup.

 

“What I would really love to know, though,” he commented instead, “is how the hell Masters and Lipsickle were discovered by the police ?”

 

The men turned to him, and he decided to explain his point further.

 

“I mean… did they have something on them before and they decided to arrest them now ? And why just now ? Did they receive more information suddenly ? I guess… but that means someone had to give it to them somehow. It’s not like there are cops with us in the concert hall…”

 

Thorin standing up abruptly and nearly making the table topple in the process caused him to stop. He had a strange light in his eyes, as if he had understood something.

 

“Thorin ?” Dain asked, sounding confused.

“I need to… check something.”

 

And with that said, he marched towards the lounge door without as much as a glance back at the other three men.

 

-

 

Thorin was stomping down the corridor.

There was something he had seen earlier, something which signification had eluded him at the time but which started to make sense now with some step back and Bilbo’s innocent comment. He tried to skip through his memory to pinpoint exactly what he had seen, wondering if maybe he had dreamt it or misunderstood it. When he had been at the balcony in the hall, overlooking the scene of the policemen taking away the two men, after he had spotted Thranduil… Yes, that was that. It wasn’t her who had struck him. No. Next to her was Lake Town’s home singer, and on his face a look he had not identified at first. Bard wasn’t surprised. Now that he thought of it, actually, he looked satisfied like someone who knew this was going to happen. How ?

He stopped in front of Bard’s dressing room, not hesitating even a second before knocking. A muffled sound came from inside – hushed voices and footsteps – before the door opened to reveal… Thranduil.

 

“What are you doing here ?” she asked with a raised eyebrow.

 

Her stare had always been somewhat like an x-ray, piercing, judging, and he remembered a time when they were making fun of it, in a friendly manner, joking on how he really couldn’t hide anything from her. Those were nice times. But no, this wasn’t the moment to think about it.

 

“I need to talk to Bard about… er…” he stopped, frowning, wondering whether he should include her in the secret.

“Never mind. I was leaving anyway. Some people are here for music, you know.”

 

She turned away from him to cast a look at Bard and wave at him in a graceful gesture, then exited the room without as much as a goodbye to Thorin. The singer wanted to say he was surprised to see her there, but honesty commanded him to admit that he was half expecting it given the close proximity he had witnessed those past few days between her and Bard.

 

“So… what did you want to talk about ?”

 

Bard’s voice called him back from his thoughts, and he closed the door behind him slowly. The LakeTowner was sitting on a chair in front of the big mirror, but he wasn’t looking at his reflection. He was playing with a little necklace with a pendant… the sort of things a child would craft. He had had enough “best uncle” gifts crafted dutifully by his nephews to notice a similarity.

 

“My daughter’s work,” Bard answered his stare, smiling.

 

Thorin inhaled, still gazing at the pendant to avoid Bard’s gaze. He had to take the leap of faith instead of just standing here awkwardly.

 

“You knew ?”

“Knew what ?” Bard frowned, confused.

“Masters and Lipsickle. How did you… wait, you got them out of the picture, didn’t you ?”

 

Bard turned back to the contemplation of the pendant with his signature grim smile.

 

“Well, I wouldn’t say that. The cops did it. I just…” he interrupted himself to find the correct words, “Let’s say I nudged them in the right direction.”

 

Thorin couldn’t help but letting out a whistle at this. He had underestimated the LakeTowner, apparently. He considered the man in front of him, his placid demeanour, his severe expression, his kind eyes, before breathing out.

 

“How ?”

“Lake Town is not that big a town, you know, especially for people working in the same business. I’ve known the two for years, known their ways. When something stinks around here, they’re never really far.”

“And you realised something was off this week ?”

“Before that in fact. Since when I was selected to represent Lake Town. They tried to bar me from it… not very discreetly I must say. I’ve been trying to find stuff on them ever since. It wasn’t easy, but there were some little things. Not enough to bother going to the police until now.”

“Until Smaug ?”

“Yeah. I knew they’ve had business with him before. It wasn’t that hard to put two and two together when he showed up. I knew they must have had some sort of plan then, and that there could be some papers or something. There was.”

 

Thorin’s eyebrows rose. This was fantastic, truly brilliant and everything, but there still was a little detail in all of this that needed some explanation, and so he asked.

 

“So, what’s the next step ? Are they going to take down Smaug too, after that ?”

“They’re still trying to find stuff on him. Masters is an idiot, and overly confidant. He lets everything in plain sight because he is so sure nobody could possibly threaten him. But of course Smaug is much cleverer than that. None of the things I gave the police involved him directly.”

“Of fucking course,” Thorin groaned, disappointed.

 

Bard looked at him with the sad expression of a puppy, but ended up shrugging after all, as if to brush it off. Typical of him.

 

“I wish there were more I could do, but…”

“No, no, you’ve done all you could. It’s… just frustrating I guess. He’s so close to his downfall. There has never been a better occasion… and there could be no other occasion in a long time afterwards.”

 

The LakeTowner simply hummed in agreement. They staid silent for a little while, Bard still fidgeting and playing with the pendant, and Thorin standing awkwardly with his arms folded on his chest and looking pointedly at the tip of his left shoe.

 

“But he did come… Smaug I mean,” he finally let out in a breath, looking up at Bard again, “He could have remained hidden in the shadows while things were being done by his minions, but he decided to make an entrance. Why ?”

“Must have sensed that something in his plan wasn’t working, that Masters and Alfrid weren’t doing things as they should. Like… and I still don’t know why me in particular… but I wasn’t supposed to be selected for the whole contest in the first place and here I am, qualified for the Finale. And I have a feeling he didn’t want you nor Thranduil in it too. And look where you four are now.”

“So Dain was right,” Thorin muttered, more for himself than for Bard, “he came so he could frighten us, but that’s because… actually he’s the one who’s close to lose…”

“It would appear so,” Bard sent him a side glance.

“Hmm… I hope it will make him commit some mistake.”

“Yeah. Let’s hope for the best.”

 

Thorin nodded, silent again. His head was flooded by many thoughts, many what ifs and why nots, many possibilities for the future. There was still so much that could happen, and yet so much that has been done. And all of this thanks to the efforts and bravery of one man. Thorin couldn’t help feeling faintly guilty. He knew in his heart that he hadn’t been in any position to do anything himself, mainly for a lack of opportunity, but still he couldn’t help thinking that maybe he should have been doing something instead of lamenting and waiting for someone else to do the trick, or simply for doom to befall him. He had always been more combative and resourceful than that in the past… why had he let himself be drown under dread and despair as of a sudden ?

Well, whatever his reason was, it was of no use to dwell on that right now. He stilled himself, looking at Bard with an expression as earnest as possible.

 

“Thank you, Bard. That’s not much reward for your efforts but… for what it’s worth, I’m glad you did it. And I’m grateful, truly.”

“I didn’t do it to get a reward… but it does mean a lot, Thorin. Thank you.”

 

Thorin felt lighter when he came out of the room. Much lighter than he had felt in days, and even in years. Yes, it was far from over, and Smaug’s shadow was still looming over them, but they had a chance… a fair chance if he wanted to be optimistic – which was still relatively new and hard for him, but for once he wanted to believe.

 

He wanted to believe.

 

-

 

They were in Bilbo’s dressing room, and the Shireling was fidgeting and fussing about the room, anxiously brushing his outfit for the show one instant, then pacing in a wide circle, and sometimes stopping dead in his tracks to stare at Thorin.

Dain and Dwalin having decided to go for a little walk – and perhaps shopping session – in town during his chat with Bard, the singer from Erebor had gone to find Bilbo. Thorin had given him an account of his conversation with Bard, and the Shireling had had an impressed but not surprised expression. Somehow he had known in his heart that Bard was this sort of man. Honest, perhaps to a fault, smart enough to connect the dots of what was happening around him, and ready to take action when there was no other choice and when something needed to be done. He seemed to have a dutiful outlook on life. It was still impressive to think he had managed this almost singlehandedly though.

 

Bilbo was in one of those static moments once again, but this time he was not looking directly at Thorin. He was staring at his own reflexion in a tall mirror, and glancing at the singer behind him through the mean of said reflection. Thorin was sitting on one of the modern armchairs that seemed to populate every corner of the concert hall, a sort of mint green thing you could probably buy in any Ikea, and he was gazing at the carpet without really seeing it.

 

“Thorin, I wanted to ask you…” he started nervously, “if you want to answer, that is. You don’t have to, of course, that’s you right…”

“What do you want to know ?” Thorin cut his rambling with his eyebrows raised and his head turning to look at Bilbo.

“Right, hm…”

 

He was trying to sort out his thoughts and find the smoothest way to ask, but he realised after a moment of indecisive silence that the best way was sometimes to ask frankly. And so he took a breath and launched himself into the great unknown.

 

“What exactly happened with Smaug ? And Azog for that matter ? And also with Thranduil ? I…” he interrupted himself and turned back to properly face the singer, “I really don’t mean to intrude on something private, but I have the distinct feeling that I have stepped into something without understanding what exactly.”

 

He saw Thorin sighing more than he heard it, his chest heaving suddenly, then receding just as quickly, his lips parting slightly in the process. And then…

 

“Some years ago, my grandfather owned a record label. It was quite renowned in its branch, though the artists he signed were not exactly mainstream. He was respected in the profession, and he earned lots of money.”

 

He scratched his chin, visibly to give himself some time to think of how to say what he wanted to tell.

 

“My dad,” he paused, “I remember he used to say that it was dangerous to be too arrogant, that we would make people jealous or something… but my grandfather used to brush it off, used to brag. Said he didn’t see the problem in being proud of one’s success, and ‘what was the point in working in the show-business if not to make money anyway’ so he didn’t pay much attention to my dad’s warnings.”

“And was he right ? Your father… ?”

“Hmm… Yeah. Turned out he was.”

 

He let out another shaky breath.

 

“Smaug of course. He was a newcomer in the business, and he wanted to climb the ladder fast, even if that meant cheating pretty bad to squeeze what he wanted out of his opponents. A real shark. My brother used to say ‘a dragon’.”

“Did he attack your grandfather’s label ?”

“He did. Took everything from his hands. Absolutely legal, all of it, in the papers at least. But my grandfather… well he wasn’t well in the end, so technically Smaug abused his weakness… but we never manage to prove that, obviously.”

 

Bilbo approached slowly, coming to sit down in another armchair in front of Thorin.

 

“That’s… I’m sorry.”

“It’s in the past, now. We’ve built our own lives. Which doesn’t supress the hurt, and certainly doesn’t calm the anger.”

“I imagine, yes.”

“Azog…” he said after acknowledging Bilbo’s sympathetic tone with a nod, “was signed on my grandfather’s label. Gundabad Terrors his band was called at the time. They were real bastards, the lot of them, unmanageable.”

 

He had a dark and bitter smile, frowning at nothing in particular, except perhaps at his memories.

 

“My dad and Dwalin’s had the hardest time working with them. Once they nearly sent my brother to the hospital, and another time Dain had to physically restrain Azog from killing some dude after a show… for whatever petty reason. I can’t even remember why. Pfff, it doesn’t matter.”

“Is that why you’re angry with him ?”

“No. Actually… we have always thought that Azog had helped Smaug one way or another. Once again without any proof to build a case against them.”

“I see.”

 

He remembered his mom talking about those sort of things. ‘This business is a dangerous one, my son’, she used to say, ‘you spend much more time watching your back than actually playing music, and even when you are as careful as possible, you’re still not your own person at the end of the day’. He had never fully understood what she meant, and had almost wondered if she was not being dramatic on purpose, or paranoid. But he had had a lot of luck himself, what with being signed on his mom’s trusted friend’s label, and thus been given the safety and latitude to build his path in the industry at his own terms and conditions, and at his own rhythm. He had been extremely lucky, yes, and he was starting to realise just how much exactly.

Thorin’s story… it was tragic. It was not bad luck. Bad luck is terrible because unfair and incomprehensible, but there is no one to blame in the end, just a twisted fate. No, this was just as his mom had told him : a stab in the back. And an ocean of bitterness, feelings of revenge, and distrust, that kept one awake at night. Tragedy.

 

“Thranduil ?” he asked tentatively.

“Was signed on my grandfather’s label too. He liked to say that he had made her from nothing. I’ve always thought that she needed nobody to make herself, but anyway. The thing is…” he looked Bilbo with a hard stare, as if to underline even more how serious this was, “when the business with Smaug happened, she disappeared. Downright deserted us. She was one of my best friends, it truly felt like a betrayal.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah. I thought that, at worse, we would stay with each other, soldier on together. It was like charging in the battlefield and realise that your sibling-in-arm had turned heels and left. And in that moment I swear you feel the loneliest.”

“Was she…” Bilbo stopped, wondering if maybe it was pushing too far to ask, “more than a friend ?”

 

Thorin tilted his head to the side, lips in a thin line, and Bilbo thought that maybe he had indeed overstepped. But the singer answered finally.

 

“I see why you would think that. It would make the betrayal even worse I guess.”

 

Bilbo had a sorry smile, trying to convey a silent apology, but Thorin merely shook his head and smile in return.

 

“You are a romantic, mister Baggins. I imagine the world need some. But no. We really were just friends.”

“Oh.” Bilbo uttered again eloquently, “Right.”

“That already hurt enough as it was, anyway.”

 

Bilbo’s eyebrows knitted together in compassion for Thorin. He wasn’t really thinking about what he was doing – if he had been, he would have probably stopped himself – but all he was focused on was the singer and his pain, and so he extended his own hand to take Thorin’s. He didn’t seem to mind, though, as his fingers grabbed Bilbo’s back. The Shireling’s voice was soft as he spoke.

 

“I can’t pretend to know how it feels, of course, but I understand now. At least better then during those past few days.”

“Thank you,” Thorin gave a little squeeze of his hand, “I’m sorry we have kept you in the dark, me especially. The guys said nothing for my sake, so really it’s me.”

“You didn’t have to tell me. It’s not really my business-”

“But yes, it is. It was your business the moment Smaug came into the bar and started mischief. He can do so much harm, and you could be a target just as much as anybody else in this contest. It wasn’t fair of me to leave you clueless and care only for myself.”

“It’s hard for you, dwelling on the past. I understand, really. Telling all that stuff to a stranger… you don’t have to.”

“You’re not a stranger anymore though.”

 

Bilbo could feel his cheeks heating, and he couldn’t help but muttering almost inaudibly.

 

“I don’t know. You don’t think I am ?”

“You’ve been nothing but good to us. Well, if we except me being a jerk to you that first time but… ever since, you’ve been nice.”

“Well that’s… that’s very nice of you to say.”

“I mean it.”

“Thank you.”

“No, thank you Bilbo,” Thorin insisted, getting flushed himself if the redness on his cheeks was any indication, “Really, you are…”

 

He interrupted himself and just stared into Bilbo’s eyes, and it seemed that his eyes were searching for something. What, Bilbo had no idea. He himself didn’t know what to say, or do, and remained silent. Thorin’s lips were still slightly parted, and he couldn’t tear his eyes from them, ignoring the red light that was suddenly flashing somewhere deep inside his mind. He was vaguely aware of his heart beating faster than usual. He unconsciously licked his own lips, nervous. Now it was Thorin’s turn to shoot a quick glance at his mouth. What the hell were they doing…

 

“I am what ?” and he would have cringe at the weakness of his voice if he had been able to focus on it, but he could not, “a… friend ?”

“I… hope so,” Thorin replied, and Bilbo saw his adam’s apple moving in his throat, “and maybe…”

 

He didn’t finish his sentence, and Bilbo’s ‘maybe what’ question died before it could cross his lips as Thorin’s mouth found his. He was only surprised for a fleeting second, but something inside of him knew this was coming all along, or maybe it was that it all made sense retrospectively. He didn’t really know, and didn’t really care. He found himself answering the kiss fervently, squeezing his eyes shut to best savour the moment. There was a lingering taste of something fresh – the drink with mint syrup Thorin had drank earlier at the bar, his mind supplied.

When they finally broke the kiss, they stared at each other for what felt like an eternity, catching their breaths, until Thorin talked again.

 

“Maybe more ? If you’d like to ?”

“I’d like that,” he answered in a breathy voice, “very much.”

“Nice. Very nice.”

 

This was followed by a silence. Slightly awkward, as neither of them seemed to know what they were supposed to do or say next. Maybe there was just nothing to say or do in particular. Bilbo realised they were still holding hands. Not that he wanted to change that situation. No, they were perfect the way they were.

There still was a lot coming their way for sure, the contest itself, and the presence of Smaug around, but at least there was some hope. Maybe Gandalf was right, after all, it would be an adventure… not without perils, but so worth fighting it, if only for the experience and the friends made along the way.

 

Or maybe more then friends.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 11 months !! I can't express how sorry I am for this unbelievably long delay.   
> I started a new academic life studying Literature and Civilisation, after long long years of struggle and doubt studying law, and it felt so very good to be excited for something again, and most of all to be rewarded for it and my hard work. I've passed my year with honours and am 1st of my year, and I've been selected to do an Erasmus year starting next september. It is fantastic and I feel so incredibly happy !  
> So, yeah, I'm very sorry I had to put my writing on hold for so long, but on the other hand it was so worth the hard work I invested in my school year, so there's that.
> 
> I initially wanted this fic to be a more or less 8k one-shot, and more that a year afterwards it's 4 chapters long and around 28k. I kept adding little things, backstories and side plots, so I could have been overwhelmed by the importance it was taking, too.
> 
> Anyway, there's going to be a last chapter to focus on the finale and wrap all of it. I hope you have enjoyed this chapter even with the long delay. I hope I won't take this long for the last one.


	5. Rock the Casbah

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A perilous situation, the climax of a contest at long last… which may or may not bring a happy conclusion to the week’s troubles.

“And the final 12 points from us goes to…”

 

The silence was heavy. If not for a few people in the audience making some noise or saying something, the sound of which was muffled by the mass of them and coming to them from afar like through cotton, there wasn’t a noise. Everybody was looking at the huge screen on which the face of the Rhovanionan journalist was plastered, waiting for him to complete his sentence. The score was tight, so tight. Everything was still possible, and this vote was to decide of the result.

Azog was, of course, already smiling in victory.

 

-

 

The hours before a show are always the worst – or at least that’s how she feels about them. Right between the moment when all the technical aspects have been dealt with and the time to jump in the costume and have the make up done. Just then. It’s terrible, not having anything to do but carve circles into the rug and fidget, waiting for the long minutes to pass. You would believe that after all this time she would have grown accustomed to it, would have developed tactics to make the wait smoother, but no. She was still as nervous and fussing as before her very first live show. Incredible the way we can advance in age without learning anything at all, sometimes.

It really didn’t help that the last week had been trying, and had nervously exhausted her. Not only the stress and fatigue of the contest itself, but everything else from her unwilling crush on Bard to the threatening appearance of Smaug. She touched the side of her face in an involuntary gesture. The scar was hidden behind the makeup, but she could always feel it with the tip of her fingers, the eternal remembrance of very bad days. They were over, she mentally shook herself. There are so many good days ahead, so many joys. Sometimes it was hard to convince herself of that, and other times she felt sure of it. Recovery is never smooth and linear. But there was always enough to cling to, always a good reason to at least get by.

 

The very best of these knocked resolutely at the door, and smiled at her when she opened the door.

 

“Hi mom!”

 

She remained silent a few seconds in her surprised. He was indeed there in front of her, his pale face trying to look serious and adult already, something he had always tried very hard to manage in spite of the worst resting faces ever seen on a human being. The number of photographs with him on the background and his unfortunate facial expressions were blackmail material, the privilege of a parent keeping those preciously for any potential suitors to behold. This and a few savoury childhood anecdotes.

 

“My little leaf!” she managed at last, “why are you here?”

“Well, I wouldn’t miss your big night. I took a train this morning, to surprise you.”

“And I am very glad you did.”

 

Some family members like to squeeze you against them really hard, as if loosening their hold just a bit would make you disappear. Some others like to pat your arms, or hair, or face, in good-natured affection. There are many little gestures by which people show their love. Thranduil, on the other hand, wasn’t a tactile person. She did love her son with a very fierce love and would have given up everything for him. But touching didn’t come naturally to her. They sat across from each other in the minty green armchairs, looking at each other fondly, but they didn’t embrace. Legolas’s eyebrows shot up as he asked.

 

“So… feeling ready?”

“As much as it is possible to be, I believe.”

“I suppose it’s huge and a bit scary. But you know your job, I’m sure of that.”

“Thank you for your confidence.”

 

His face was open and earnest, and yet there were some tension on his brow and jaw. He was still so young, though he was trying his best to look mature. His face had grown very serious, a bit stern at times, and she wondered if she had done something to cause it, or if it was just his natural personality. She tried not to think too hard on this, though. He was turning into a fine, clever, and healthy young man. It was perhaps a bad idea to try to dig too profoundly on where there was no necessity of digging, lest we awake things that were not meant to be awoken. She sighed.

 

“You know, Legolas, I am a bit tired of all of this.”

 

He started a bit, tilting his head to the side.

 

“Tired of what, exactly?”

“This life… always on the road, always performing.”

 

She had a vague gesture of her hand, motioning to nothing in particular and to everything at the same time.

 

“I’m not that young, too-”

“Mom!?!”

“No no, listen. I’m starting to think that settling down is not a bad idea, after all. Nothing like suburb house and gardening, anyway-”

“Valar be blessed, that would probably be a mess.”

“I know, right?”

 

She chuckled lightly, but went back to her previous pensive state quickly.

 

“No, I mean turning to calmer activities. I’ve liked the stage, but I’ve had enough. Lately… all of this has been more stressful than exciting, you see what I mean?”

 

He nodded wisely, but didn’t interrupt her chain of thoughts.

 

“Well… when something is not fulfilling anymore, you need to consider why you are doing it, and if it’s worth continuing. I’ve been thinking about it now, and this week, as much as it is a wonderful opportunity, has given me the last proof I needed. I want something new.”

“I see."

 

And, really, what business had he looking so wise and thoughtful. You advert your eyes for one minute, and your baby boy is suddenly looking like a professional psychologist. He just needed a notepad and pen. This thought made her smile.

 

“So… what are you planning to do instead?”

“I’ve been thinking about having my own singing school, or coaching programs… that sort of stuff.”

“You… interacting with people?”

 

Her eyebrows raised, not sure if surprised or offended.

 

“You are aware that being a singer does involve interacting with people, right?”

“It involves performance. It’s a one-sided conversation.”

“No, no. You get the energy back from the audience, you see. They give you as much fuel as you give them.”

“But it’s nothing personal. I mean, it’s not a one-to-one conversation. It’s not the same. You’ll have to open up to people, to… actually listen.”

“And I can’t do that?”

 

He was embarrassed, but strangely determined to get his point across.

 

“You are not the best listener, no. Sorry mom, but you… look, you don’t usually like being in an actual conversation with the people you don’t know or trust. There’s nothing wrong with that, but I’m not sure it’s what you’ll like. It’ll make you… more vulnerable.”

 

Well, he had indeed become very wise when she wasn’t looking, there was no denying. And what’s more, she had to admit that he had a point. But she also felt ready to face the challenge, come what may. She tilted her head to the side, a gesture strikingly similar to her son’s, and a little smile tugged at the corner of her mouth.

 

“Well, son. I might surprise you.”

 

-

 

One minute, Bard was sitting at the bar of the concert hall, talking casually with one of the other contestants, and the second, he was glaring at his phone’s screen and excusing himself out of the room, a scowl set firmly on his face.

 

This had not escaped Thorin’s attention. For all that he was accused by his cousin of being pretty daft and oblivious sometimes, he had his eye on Bard from the moment they had exchanged on the topic of Masters and Lipsickle’s demise.

In the back of his mind was the faint idea that Bard had clearly been a target of malevolent intentions during this contest, and Thorin didn’t wish to anybody to live what he and his family had been through some years ago. Bard had children. Three adorable chipmunks as he had learnt since. Thorin felt an ache in his chest, remembering the world crumbling down around his own father, the thunderstruck expression in his face as he pulled his own three children closer in the mist of the disaster. He thought he would never forget it, and the haunted look Thrain had worn ever since. He saw Bard moving around and felt nauseous imagining the same look on his face.

 

He gulped down the rest of his coffee, wincing at its bitterness, very well intending to follow the man and see if something terrible was prompting his sudden gravity. He followed through the corridors, mindful of keeping a reasonable distance between them to make sure he would not be seen. He felt a bit guilty for acting as if Bard was a suspect, but he needed to do something, or at least be around in case of need. It was probably a futile thought, but he didn’t like the idea of being idle while things happened around him. Not if he could have a say in it.

 

Bard entered a room at some point. Thorin was almost certain it was some sort of meeting room for the staff of the concert hall, but he knew his orientation skills to be deceiving, so he wouldn’t have bet on it. There was however a sort of storage room right next to the room Bard had entered, rather small, and rarely used. A strategic place to hide, especially as the walls in this part of the buildings tended to be paper-thin.

He did not lose time to slide in it and find his way through the room in the most silent manner he could maintain. He managed to stand in the midst of the brooms and various tools in what must have been the most awkward position he had ever found himself in, half bent, one leg over an old vacuum, and griping a high shelf tightly to keep some sort of balance. That was weird and uncomfortable, but that would do, he thought resolutely.

Then, with his ear as close to the wall as he could, he listened.

 

The voices were hushed by the wall, but he could well recognise the distinctive nonchalant tone of Bard, with his derision and accent. The other voice he knew all too well, even after all this time. Smaug.

Of course it was, a part of him snickered. Who else would be so insanely arrogant as to come in broad daylight to threaten his foes – and twice with that, his mind supplied – with everybody around to see him or walk in on him doing his deeds?

 

“Have you thought of my proposition?”

 

Smaug’s voice was cold, emotion-less, and deep. Hearing it felt like looking down at a cavern. It gave Thorin the same sensation of vertigo. If it produced the same sensation in Bard, the man didn’t let it slip. His voice was just as collected and nonchalant as usual.

 

“My answer hasn’t changed. I am not interested in signing with you.”

 

So this was what Smaug wanted from Bard? Thorin was furious behind his wall. That old serpent! He knew all too well what it meant to abdicate to Smaug’s power. It only brought ruin and sorrow. But Bard seemed to know how to navigate difficult waters, and mind the rocks that threatened to sink his little boat. Thorin prayed to Mahal that this would not enrage Smaug even more. A vain prayer, probably.

 

“Poor idiot, you have no idea what you have gotten yourself into.”

 

Smaug’s cavernous voice was ominous, and a chill ran down Thorin’s back.

 

“I have ways to destroy you. Your career, your life, your family. I can shatter it all.”

“Nobody has that much power.”

 

Bard’s answer seemed confident, though there was a slight trembling in his voice that went totally unnoticed by Smaug, who was infuriated further by his answer.

 

“You think I can’t? Oh but money is everything, and reputation. I can make sure you’ll find nobody to sign you. I can even buy off all of the industry so you’ll find nobody else to work with.”

“That sounds very dramatic, even for you.”

 

What in the name of Mahal was Bard playing at. The man was going to be roasted alive, if he continued that way. For all that Thorin admired his bravery, he had to wonder if it was not in fact madness. Nobody could talk that way to Smaug and hope to survive. Yet, the singer continued.

 

“I mean, I imagine you can make a few calls so it’ll be more difficult for me, alright. But buying off the whole industry? Ruining my family? Don’t you find it a bit too much?”

 

The matter-of-fact tone was still in place. Bard had not raised his voice, nor seemed angry, and if not for the aforementioned trembling, Thorin would have been convinced that the man was giving no fuck whatsoever.

 

“Oh, but you have no idea what I’ve done! This will not be the first time I crushed someone under my boot.”

“Hmm… big words.”

“Big words? Do you want to ask the Durin family if there was just big words? I think you have met their spawn… though he goes by the name Oakenshield, or so I’ve been told.”

“I think I see who he is,” Bard replied nonchalantly.

“Well, I destroyed them! The old fool, his grand father, never saw it coming. I made all of their best artists clear out by signing some for more money, and by threatening the others, I got information on the state of their business with the help of Azog, I relayed every possible rumour on his mental health while appearing to him as a trusted friend. And when he was at his worst, when he was ready to be defeated, he sold me his company for nothing and I finally had his head. His son and grandchildren had nothing left, and I even made sure nobody would extend a hand to them for a while. I heard Oakenshield started by playing in bars. I couldn’t control the underground scene, though, but that’s enough for me that he never became known in mainstream media...”

 

Smaug had started ranting, and he ranted some more after that, but Thorin was not listening anymore. He had received a blow, and had had to sit down on a crate. Hearing all of this, all this hatred, from the mouth of Smaug himself… It was too much. He knew all of that, of course, but there was something terrible in hearing it. It was like thunder striking him. H could not bear to listen to the flow of Smaug’s rage anymore. He zoned out, reminiscing, and once more fearing for Bard too. Now the man had brought the anger of Smaug on him, and there was nothing left that could save him. Surely the singer from LakeTown would realise that now.

 

“So, do you think it’s just words, now?” Smaug closed his furious monologue in a last threatening one-liner.

 

Yet, to Thorin’s confusion, Bard did not cower, and he did not tremble. Instead, after a little silence, he replied with a smile in his voice.

 

“Thank you for telling me all this. It is very instructive.”

 

And the door in the next room opened with a bang.

 

-

 

Thorin had been gone for three hours, and that did not sit well with Bilbo.

After seeing Thorin marching down a corridor hurriedly – without even seeing him despite only being some two metres from him – he had expressed some concerns to Dwalin and Dain, but the two men had assured him that it did not mean anything. Just Thorin things, Dain had sighed, he does that sometimes. And, after all, they knew him better than Bilbo did, so maybe he was making a fuss over nothing. Still something had told Bilbo that there was something going on. The look on Thorin’s face was intense, focused, and perhaps a tiny bit afraid. Why? He had no idea. Was it Smaug’s doing? And after two hours without seeing him, he started to think that his suspicions were founded after all.

Yet, all he could do was pacing the length of the room, trying not to let his mind race towards impossible and terrifying scenarios. How exactly would that help? He was aware that Dwalin was glancing at him from time to time, but he could not bring himself to stop, nor even to look back at the man. He knew his anxiety would burst into a frenzy as soon as he would look up. Well, on the other hand, they had to do something at some point, no?

 

Just as Bilbo had managed to gather enough courage to lift his eyes and open his mouth to convey his thoughts to the two other men in the room, the door opened suddenly, and Thorin himself marched into the room, scowling furiously. Bilbo was left speechless, his voice dying in his throat, but Dain was quick to react, suspicion and perhaps a hint of alarm in his voice.

 

“My my, Thorin, what have you gotten yourself into? You seem in quite a state!”

 

Then, to Bilbo’s – and probably Dwalin’s and Dain’s too – confusion, the singer burst out laughing. The three of them looked at each other, confirming that they were all out of their depth and that it was, indeed, totally not in the man’s habits, and reported their stare back onto Thorin, while Dwalin exclaimed.

 

“What the hell is wrong with you?”

“You won’t fucking believe it! I’m almost wondering if I hallucinated myself. And yet… Oh my God!”

 

Bilbo was, for his part, very much starting to doubt Thorin’s sanity. To begin with, the general hilarity of the man seemed so incompatible with his habitual personality, a bit like finding a chicken wearing a sombrero, that it made little sense. Had he stepped into another dimension without knowing? Then, of course, there was his disappearance for the past hours. Regardless, it seemed that Bilbo had been right in his former assumption after all. Something had indeed happened, but instead of a terrible and dangerous thing, it appeared to be something exceptionally positive if it managed to put Thorin in such a state of happiness. He was curious to know what, and so was Dwalin, who was drumming with his fingers on the table and pressed his friend to “spit it out”. Good naturedly – another unusual thing – Thorin complied.

 

“Well, alright. I followed Bard earlier…”

 

Hence the determined state he had seen him into.

 

“… I’ve learnt before that he had some issues with Smaug-”

“Wait, what!?!”

“Are you fucking kidding?”

 

Thorin nodded silently in answer to his fellow band members’ simultaneous exclamations. Bilbo, of course, did not say anything, but felt a bit guilty for not having told the two. He had just assumed Thorin would tell them of his previous encounter with Bard.

 

“Absolutely. I knew that fucker appearing was not innocent, and apparently, it was about Bard. He…. Wanted to sign him on his label.”

 

This left a stunned silence, that Thorin let happen, and that Bilbo did not dare to interrupt, knowing all too well what it meant for the three of them. It was like intruding on a funeral, and so he let the men take these few seconds to recollect. Dain, however, soon recovered himself and, according to his usual practical and astute personality, squinted his eyes at Thorin.

 

“Hold on! Wanted? Past tense?”

“Indeed.”

 

He didn’t continue and let that hang in the air for a moment, smugly looking at their three pairs of expectant eyes fixed on him. He took pity of them, though, after a while.

 

“It is my outmost pleasure to announce that Smaug has finally been taken down, and by none other than Bard himself.”

“Blimmey.”

 

Dain was positively red, happiness making all the blood flow to his head one way or another, and Dwalin was speechless, his mouth hanging open like that of a fish, but no sound coming out of it. As for Bilbo… well… he could find nothing else than letting out a low whistle.

 

“I can’t believe… after all this time. Is it for real, Thorin?”

 

The singer nodded at Dain, who really looked closer and closer to exploding out of sheer delight but still managed to utter the incoherent question, followed by muttering sounds of appreciation. It took Thorin a few minutes, and a happy and inconsistent rambling of his own, to explain to them what happened exactly.

He explained to them how Bard had gotten Smaug to tell everything he had done in the past, not necessarily in precise details, but enough so that it was no secret anymore that he had used criminal tools to achieve his ends. But, more importantly, he told them how, as soon as Smaug had finished his explanations, the police had burst into the room and arrested him.

 

“The damn police?” breathed Dwalin.

“The damn police,” confirmed Thorin.

“And they arrested him right on the spot?”

“Yes.”

“Good!”

 

They staid silent for a while, stunned by the revelation Thorin had brought to them, then the three men all became agitated and started to talk at the same time, shouting in congratulations and newfound hope. Bilbo, on the other hand, did not know what to do or say. As much as he understood what they must feel, he thought he had no real right to partake in their rejoicing. He had been a guest in their group for a few days, nothing more. He started to doubt the importance of the kiss they had shared too. Maybe it had arrived too fast, or maybe he was just being fussy, but he couldn’t help it.

Quietly, he slipped out of the room, letting them appreciate their happiness, and went back to his own dressing room to start preparing for the big night.

 

-

 

The rest of the afternoon passed in a hurry and in a blur. Soon, it had been time to dress, and put on the makeup or accessories, and lock themselves up for any little ritual they might have to perform before a show – for musicians, much like thespians, can sometimes be hilariously superstitious – and then it had been time for the ceremony opening. He now felt a bit guilty for not having noticed that Bilbo left. But there had been so many things on his mind lately, and surely the Shireling wouldn’t mind. He hoped so anyway. Even afterwards, the whole show had felt extremely quick-paced and his head had turned a bit at some point. That and the fact that so many people were looking at him, in the concert hall but also on TV. That was quite a realisation. Despite the sensation of vertigo, they still managed to do a pretty good performance, at least in his opinion.

Yet, everything had felt rushed. Well, up until that moment anyway. The long and agonising revelation of the attribution of the points, and the dread as the final score appeared to be tight. And not just any contestant was up for the title… Azog was close to victory. He was angry at the idea of that brute wining, but after that very satisfying day, after Smaug’s demise, he was willing to be optimistic. Come on, don’t disappoint us at the last moment, he thought while looking at the journalist from Rhovanion whose face was smiling in the big screen.

 

“And the final 12 points from us goes to…”

 

And now all of their hearts were beating fast, waiting for the journalist to finish his sentence, which he was obviously stretching to give it more effect. Finally, the time had come.

 

“…Erebor!”

 

A thunder of applause followed that, people stomping, clapping, and roaring their enthusiasm in the loudest way, and Thorin found himself unable to process the information at first, stony and silent as the world around him was completely losing it. The feeling of relief that Azog could not win anymore, that they were safe from his hideous winning face, came first to him, but he progressively realised the implication of that. They had won. Them – their band, the sons of Khazad Dum – but also Erebor thanks to them. They had done it. At last he registered Dwalin’s claps in his back, and Dain’s excited little jumps up and down on their sofa. And next, their three forms appearing on the screens of the great concert hall, with his own face incredulous and still amidst the fury of movements. Then the camera focused on Azog who was exploding in a fit of anger. That served him well. Now, everybody could see how ugly the man’s temper truly was.

But he wasn’t going to lose time and energy on Azog. Not anymore. He had spent so many years being bitter over the guy. But tonight was his night, and he had won, not the villainous singer. Tonight, he just wanted to celebrate; with his band, with the friendly people they had met in the contest… and with Bilbo. He turned his head to where the Shireling was sitting, not so far from their own sofa. Bilbo was looking at them, and their eyes met. Thorin felt himself smiling automatically.

 

Tonight would be a night to remember.

 

-

 

Bilbo was waiting on the quay of LakeTown’s train station. They had celebrated the Ereborians’ victory the night before, and he was wearing sunglasses in spite of the clouds and mist to hide his ongoing headache. Yet, as much as he was happy and proud for the band, his temper was as gloomy as the weather. He had known that as soon as the contest would be over, they would all be going their merry way, and all of this would be just a moment suspended in time, a happy parenthesis – well, minus three people arrested by the police, a threatening atmosphere, and a few over-aggressive contestants. He had realised this before the show, when they had been packed in the band’s dressing room and listening to the denouement of Smaug’s reign of terror. He had understood at the moment that he was a stranger, but afterwards he had also realised that, in the end, there was not much for him at all. He felt angry with himself for believing there could be more, and for the kiss, though he wasn’t the one who initiated it, but Thorin. He couldn’t shake the memory off of his mind, however. This would probably take some time.

 

“Bilbo, my boy!”

 

He turned around, his neck hurting a little as he looked up abruptly at…

 

“Gandalf!?”

“How do you feel today? I am sorry you did not win, but I am not dissatisfied with Erebor’s victory to be completely honest with you.”

“Good morning. I’m fine I guess, if not for my hangover. And I’m happy about their victory too. In fact, I’m not disappointed about not winning, somehow.”

“Somehow,” Gandalf repeated in a cryptic way that Bilbo decided he was too hangover to wonder at.

“So… why are you here?”

“Well, I had a few things to do around town, and I thought I might see you before you went back to the Shire… I reckon that is where you’re going?”

“I… yes. Where else?”

“Oh, I don’t know. I thought you might want to visit Erebor.”

“Ereb… why would I?”

“My bad, my bad. I thought you would like to see your new friends’ country.”

“Why, I suppose I would. But… you don’t just run off like this without notice, especially when people don’t expect you at all.”

“Oh, I don’t think they would mind.”

“Regardless, I just can’t go.”

“And why is that so?”

 

But Bilbo did not know how to answer. How to make Gandalf understand what he felt, what he had realised. That this had been a nice week overall, but hardly anything more. He was back to his previous feeling of finitude: it was not a moment meant to last. There were no word he could find to express that, however, so he simply shrugged.

 

“It just doesn’t work that way.”

“Only because you believe so.”

 

He sighed, but did not answer. There was no point arguing with Gandalf, anyway. It was like playing chess with a pigeon: the pigeon would walk over the board, disturb all the pieces, and act as if he had won. And apparently he didn’t give up either.

 

“Bilbo, I really think you ought to give it a try. You might be surprised at the outcome. Positively surprised, that is.”

“Thank you Gandalf, but I personally believe that… well... you meet people, you talk and have fun, bond for a while perhaps, but then you have to go back to your own life, and you grow apart. That’s how life is, you move on.”

 

Gandalf remained silent, but he was studying his face intently, as if he was trying to find any hint that Bilbo was lying about his feelings. Whatever he was searching for, and whether he found it or not, he finally let out a deep sigh.

 

“Fine, suit yourself. I thought you had come to find new friends.”

“No, that was your reason for pushing me to do it.”

“Oh, was it?” he asked with false ingenuity, “well, anyway. You did, though? Find friends I mean.”

“Somehow.”

“Somehow,” Gandalf parroted once again.

“Well, I’m still not sure how it happened, and mind you it didn’t start well.”

“Oh, Thorin has always been a bit… difficult, when people don’t know him.”

“Do you know him well?” Bilbo asked to derive the conversation from where this was heading. Who was talking about Thorin to begin with, and how Gandalf had even known?

 

Gandalf sighed again, this time with a sad expression on his face.

 

“I was friends with his grandfather.

“Oh. I see.”

“It’s a small industry, in a way. People who have been there for a long time end up knowing each other.”

 

He smiled softly at Bilbo.

 

“Anyway… I think Thorin might surprise you.”

“What makes you think that?”

 

Gandalf didn’t answer, but his smile turned enigmatic, and he raised his right hand to point his index behind Bilbo. Blinking in confusion, the Shireling turned around and found… Thorin himself, of course, standing still and looking at him intently a few feet away.

 

“Thorin? What are you doing here? I thought you guys had your train this afternoon?”

 

Thorin made a few steps in his direction, suddenly looking embarrassed. Bilbo was vaguely aware of Gandalf retreating a few feet back behind his back, probably to give them some space. How… weirdly kind of him.

 

“I… yes. But you went without saying goodbye. I thought… maybe I should see you off?”

 

His voice formed an interrogation which was reflected on his face, and Bilbo didn’t know what to make of it. That looked too much like a cliché romantic scene from a movie to his taste.

 

“This is… nice of you. Dwalin and Dain were still sleeping, I suppose?”

“Hm… yes. Of course. They would have come too. But I didn’t want to wait for them and risk missing you.”

“Ah. Well… thank you.”

 

He had no idea what else to say. He had tried to avoid seeing the band on purpose for this very reason, because he couldn’t find the words. ‘Thank you for the past week, for making me feel less solitary during the contest. It was fun. Hope to see you again soon, though I doubt this is ever going to happen’. How awkward would that be? But now that Thorin was in front of him, there was no avoiding a conversation. Well, if they managed to find things to say to each other, which seemed less than likely. And Gandalf had definitively left, Bilbo realised after turning around to include him in the conversation, and finding him gone. How did he always manage to do that?

 

“Time for coffee before your train arrives?” Thorin finally broke the awkward silence.

“Yeah, sure. Lead the way.”

 

Being sited facing each other in the café of the train station didn’t really make things less awkward, but at least they had a drink to occupy their hands and mouths, so there was that.

 

“Bilbo…” Thorin courageously broke the silence once again.

“Hmm?”

“Why did you leave so early, like a thief in the night?”

“Well I… didn’t want to wake you all up.”

 

He couldn’t find it in himself to tell the real reason and risk breaking Thorin’s heart so abruptly, right before his eyes. There was no nice reason to say ‘I thought you would forget me in a while anyway, and I don’t want to get my hope too high until it happens because I’m a coward’. Thorin didn’t seem to like his answer much more, but he didn’t say it. His face was expressive enough anyway.

 

“I wouldn’t have minded if it meant having more time with you before you left.”

 

And this right here was what he wanted to avoid. Now he sure had his hope skyrocketing, despite the little voice telling him not to be too optimistic. You are going to have you heart broken at one point, don’t dig your own grave further.

 

“I know it sounds silly,” Thorin followed, “I mean, we have known each other for a week only. That’s not long. But I did mean what I said the other night. I think you… or at least I’d like to think that you’re a friend, and more than that if possible.”

“Thorin, I’d like that too, really, but I feel...”

 

In for a penny…

 

“I’m afraid you’ll feel differently in a week or two. Maybe longer than that, I don’t know, but you’ll probably think of it as… hmm… how to say that… a mistake. Or rather something you felt in the moment but don’t feel anymore. A promise you can’t keep…”

 

He interrupted himself, conscious that he was rambling, and looked at Thorin with a sad expression. The Ereborian for his part looked surprised.

 

“You think I’m that inconsistent?”

“I… I don’t know.”

“Or you have so little faith in yourself?”

“Maybe.”

 

He lowered his gaze, finding a sudden interest in his cup – a very generic expresso cup, white with a brand logo on it – and trying to ignore Thorin’s eyes fixed on him. He half expected the Ereborian to be angry at him. They had shared a kiss after all, they had started something, and nothing had happened to sabotage this burgeoning relationship. Except Bilbo’s damn fear of the unknown and natural pessimism, of course. Maybe Thorin would find him stupid, or even think that he had been toying with his feelings. Bilbowasn’t sure what would be worse. If Thorin put the blame on him entirely, he thought, then maybe it would be easier.

However, when Thorin spoke next, his voice was calm and Bilbo thought there was a tenderness of sorts in the way he talked, something he had never shown before.

 

“We can’t know what will happen before it does, and we will never know if we never try.”

 

He let that hanging in the air for a few seconds, before adding.

 

“I understand your fear. To be honest with you, I am afraid too. I’m not really… em… used to expressing my feelings, let alone acting on them.”

 

Here, Bilbo dared to look up again, and met his gaze. Thorin’s face was serious and thoughtful, but there was a calmness and a quiet resolution too. Somehow, Bilbo felt less agitated and worried than he had been for the past eighteen hours or so. More importantly, he remembered now why he had felt so drawn to Thorin in the first place. Thorin was a puzzle, difficult to solve but so rewarding when you got to his core. The source of his unrest gone with Smaug’s arrest, he could now afford to show his more gentle and appeased side.

 

“But I want to try. I know I’ll hate myself if I don’t. And… if the past week has taught me anything, it is that if you dare to do something, beautiful things may happen.”

 

He concluded with a smile, to which Bilbo couldn’t help but reply. Now that he was sitting in front of Thorin and that they were talking, he couldn’t see why he had been worrying anymore, and felt a bit silly for having assumed the worst. It seemed easy, in fact, to just give it a try and see what might happen. Thorin made it sound easy.

 

“I guess we could. Try I mean,” he shifted on his chair, “I just… I’m afraid to get my hopes too high and be let down.”

“I know. Me too.”

 

Something in the honest tone of Thorin reminded Bilbo of what Thorin had been through. Of course he would be afraid, after what he had lived. The treason of Azog, the desertion of Thranduil, the illness of his grandfather. Obviously trust issues would be a thing for him, and Bilbo was suddenly struck by the bravery it required from him to let it go and give love a chance. If Bilbo was afraid that nothing should come out of it, what must it be for Thorin, really? His own worries seemed so petty now.

He extended his hand on the table to take Thorin’s hand in his own. The singer squeezed it back.

 

“I’m willing to try, Thorin. You are right, worrying will never get us anywhere.”

 

He realised he had said ‘us’ just as he was pronouncing it, but Thorin didn’t comment on that. He just nodded with a pensive look, studying Bilbo’s face in search of something that wasn’t there. He sighed finally.

 

“Yes, I think… wait!”

 

Thorin interrupted himself and looked over Bilbo’s head. The Shireling turned around to see what the cause of his confusion was. Thranduil and Bard were standing in front of them, looking happy and way too rested for the morning after a show slash celebratory partying. More surprising was the merry band following them. A blond young man, tall and slim, and looking too much like his mother to fool anyone, two teenagers – a girl and a boy – and a little girl who was munching on a cereal bar and was looking at them with the intense curiosity that only children can manage. Thorin, apparently as surprised as Bilbo, made his interrogation known to the group.

 

“What are you all doing here?”

“None of your business,” replied Thranduil with her usual haughtiness.

“Whatever. I was just trying to be polite.”

 

Bard smiled and pointed at each member of his little troop in turns.

 

“This is Legolas, Thranduil’s son” he started, pointing at the tall young man.

“I remember,” interrupted Thorin, not managing to hide the smile in his voice, “you were much younger when I last saw you.”

“Hi Thorin,” Legolas replied with a side glance to his mother.

 

Then, Bard concluded.

 

“And these three chipmunks are mine. Sigrid, Bain, and Tilda.”

“Hello,” the three replied in unison.

“Nice to meet you all. Where are you all going?”

“Rhovanion. Thranduil invited us four. I have to say I’m not against some holidays after the last few days.”

“So you two are… I mean…?” Bilbo asked.

 

Thranduil gave him a genuinely warm smile.

 

“Yes, it seems so.”

“Yeah,” Bard confirmed, “Now, not to be rude, but we really need to go catch the train.”

“Of course, no problem. You all have fun in Rhovanion.”

“You also in… wherever you two are going.”

 

They didn’t have the time to answer and specify that they were not going anywhere together, because the group was already marching out of the café and they were once again left alone, face to face.

 

“Well… that’s an unexpected ending” he sighed.

“Unexpected? No. I think that’s quite logical.”

 

Bilbo looked at him with a puzzled look. Thorin was scratching his beard.

 

“Thranduil needs someone steady and down to earth… if only to counter the drama she can pull out sometimes. Bard is perfect. He is collected, resolute, and no-nonsense. And I think he, on the other hand, needs someone dramatic to rouse him a bit.”

“Hmm, I see.”

 

But Bilbo was already lost in his own thoughts. Bard must have decided that trip at the last moment; and he had children that he had to move with him; and he still managed to do that. Maybe Gandalf was right after all. Maybe it was really that easy, and just a matter of mind set. Wouldn’t that be nice? Taking a break and see something else? Not staying by himself in his house. That was why he had come to this contest, to begin with. He looked up at Thorin.

 

“When did you say your train was?”

“2PM. When is yours? Around 10, no?”

 

Bilbo stopped for a second to look at him, trying to ignore the heavy weight he was feeling in his chest and stomach, before answering in a quiet voice.

 

“What if my train was at 2PM?”

“It isn’t this morning?” Thorin frowned.

 

Well, so much for a subtle approach. On the other hand, Ereborians weren’t known for understanding subtlety well, so he should have known.

 

“No. I mean yes, it is. But I meant…”

 

He was too embarrassed to finish his sentence, the anxiety creeping back insidiously. He just looked at his own hands, tapping his fingers on the table. Luckily for him, it seemed that Thorin was quick to realise the mistake.

 

“Oh… I see. You mean?”

“Whatever. It was a stupid idea.”

“No, no! I… I’d like that. I’m sure Dain and Dwalin would like it as well.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, of course.”

 

He would think of that moment later in the train; the moment when he had decided to follow Thorin to Erebor, out of the blue. He would spend the whole journey half wondering whether it was really a brilliant idea after all, and half in a state of exhilaration that made him almost dizzy. Yet, the vision of Thorin and Dwalin exchanging jokes and Dain reading quietly with a little smile on his face would appease him and comfort him in his resolution. You only get this sort of life-changing opportunities few times, and Gandalf was right: He would get them even less by locking himself up in his house in The Shire. Was that what Gandalf had planed all along? That old bat would certainly be ready to plan this sort of things. Match-making meddler. Well, for once he didn’t mind his plans that much.

 

He squeezed Thorin’s hand in his, and the man squeezed his back. That was without any doubt the most unexpected thing he had ever done in his life, and it should have been the most frightening. Yet, it felt as if he was meant to be there, on this train, with this people.

Maybe he should just allow himself to go with the flow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welp! Finally I managed to finish this AU. It has been a wild (and long) ride, but I hope you enjoyed it anyway.  
> Thank you to everybody who commented, kudo-ed, and read. I enjoyed working on the concept of a Eurovision!Au, and I hope to be able to start working on a new AU I have in mind soon enough. Don't hesitate to stop by my tumblr [dragonsingondolin](http://dragonsingondolin.tumblr.com/) to know more, or discuss headcanons, or anything.  
> Bye! <3

**Author's Note:**

> Ahah ! Eurovision!AU !!  
> I plan to write a second part, because I started this week after my exams ended, and it was too short a time for all the headcanons I had in mind.  
> You can find me (and talk to me) on [my tumblr](http://dragonsingondolin.tumblr.com/).
> 
> As always, let me remind you that English isn't my mother language. I tried to proofread as carefully as I could, but I can't guarantee that mistakes and wrong idioms won't appear. Also, this hasn't been beta-read. Sorry.


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